


myosotis

by unhappyrefrain



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Caretaking, Chronic Illness, Cohabitation, Developing Relationship, Eating Disorders, Emetophobia, First Kiss, Flower Language, Gardens & Gardening, Hanahaki Disease, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Kissing, Queerplatonic Relationships, Trans Female Character, Wakes & Funerals, here it is everyone. its done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-07-23 01:59:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7462212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unhappyrefrain/pseuds/unhappyrefrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deep crimson rose petals cover his lap, looking like blood against black fabric— spatters of forget-me-nots on the lid of the toilet and sprinkled across the tiled floor.<br/><i>Oh no,</i> he thinks, <i>I love him,</i> and with one last hacking cough, a single, undamaged red camellia falls into his hands.</p><p> <br/>(In which Itsuki Shu and Kagehira Mika are forced to come to terms with their feelings before the flowers take them first.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one year before

**Author's Note:**

> there's so much hanahaki love on the twitter timeline lately and everyone's been writing it and porting it here so i just HAD to join in of course!
> 
> fic notes:  
> \- this fic spans more than a year, from when mika enters yumenosaki and joins valkyrie, through the fall of valkyrie and shu's breakdown, and up until after valkyrie's recovery and return to the stage.  
> \- there are meanings to each of the flowers coughed up throughout the fic. i will be using japanese hanakotoba rather than western victorian-era flower language, for obvious reasons. 
> 
> find me on twitter at @watashumika!

For some reason, being around Shu always makes Mika feel like he's suffocating.

It starts a few days after he moves in with Shu-- he wakes up in Shu's wide, almost _sinfully_ comfortable bed, hearing the sound of the shower running, and knowing he should be getting up soon as well. Valkyrie practices in the mornings as well as between and after classes, but getting up at 6:30 in the morning isn't half as bad as dragging himself out of bed at 5, waiting for the train till 5:46, and then attempting to sleep for three hours. Key word: _attempting_. Mika is so afraid of everyone’s gazes that he can barely sleep in a place filled with people, people that don’t have much else to do but stare at other people like him. He was a mess the first few days, dragging his feet through practices with no shortage of scoldings from Shu.

He hadn’t _intended_ to slip into bed with Shu last night. But he was so cold, and Shu was so _warm_ , and the bed felt like clouds and smelled of lavender, and he almost wishes he had woken up earlier than Shu so he could have an excuse to keep his arm thrown over his waist. Holding, clinging, and Mika suddenly feels something constricting his windpipe, sticking to the sides and narrowing the air passage. Something soft and delicate, like words or feelings, but still powerful enough to leave Mika breathing with effort, working harder to bring oxygen into his lungs.

He struggles to a sitting position, looks across the room at the dresser where Mademoiselle sits, and waits for Shu to get out of the shower so he can take his bath.

 

* * *

 

The disease, as he now knows it to be, must have been incubating inside him, biding its time somewhat, because it's only a week later when Mika suddenly feels his stomach heaving in the middle of practice. His breath feels too short, even for his having been dancing for an hour, and he sags backward in the middle of the routine, looks at Shu nervously. Nazuna stops after Mika does, glances over at him.

"Sorry-- Oshi-san, need ta use the restroom, I gotta--"

Again, the churning in his gut, and Mika feels a wave of dizziness as he darts out the door and down the hallway. He stumbles into the bathroom, the door swinging open, and nearly hits his head on the towel dispenser. It's only when he gets into the stall, panting and choking on his own breath, that it spills out.

A torrent of flowers.

His mouth tastes of bile and roses, and Mika leans over the toilet, heaving and shaking, then coughing into the air, expelling small blue blooms from his swollen, reddened lips. Deep crimson rose petals cover his lap, looking like blood against black fabric— spatters of forget-me-nots on the lid of the toilet and sprinkled across the tiled floor.

 _Oh no_ , he thinks, _I love him_ , and with one last hacking cough, a single, undamaged red camellia falls into his hands.

 

When he arrives back at the practice room, the music has stopped. Nazuna, sitting against the mirror wall and snacking on a granola bar, looks at him strangely. He doesn't say anything, though, just furrows his thin brows in a questioning glance, and Mika runs his hands through his bangs, letting them fall over one of his eyes-- a self-defense reflex. Shu walks over to him, narrows his eyes, and notices the single forget-me-not on his shirt that Mika had missed in his frantic attempt to clean up.

"What's this, now?"

Shu picks it from his sweat-stained practice clothes, looks at it curiously for half a second before throwing it away. "Kagehira. Were you digging through the garden or something equally pointless?"

Mika fumbles for an excuse. "N-Naru-chan found me after I went to the bathroom, 'n she saw I was nervous, so she dragged me to the garden to calm me down, I reckon..." It's a lie, but he hopes that even though Shu knows, he doesn't question it. Shu can be like that, sometimes— refusing to involve himself in Mika’s idiosyncrasies.

Shu _hmph_ s, but there’s a softness in his eyes that Mika doesn’t overlook. "Take care not to let Narukami's whims distract you from practice, next time. I'll confront her myself if I must.” Mika is about to stammer out a frantic _no, don't tell her I told you, please I don’t want her to be scared of you_ , but Shu clicks his tongue and straightens Mika's jacket before walking back over to the stereo and clapping his hands twice, sharp and strict, returning to his usual boot-camp-instructor-like intensity. "Back in formation, now, we have fifteen minutes and Valkyrie does not waste time. Five, six, seven, eight!"

Nazuna stands up from the mirror, scoots next to Mika, a few steps behind Shu. He does not speak; only offers a sad little half-smile, sympathetic, worried. Mika bites his lip, looks down at his feet as he waits for their cue.

 

* * *

 

The screen on his smartphone is cracked, and he hasn’t spent the money to fix it yet, but it still works just fine. Under the fluorescent lights of the grocery store, Mika stands in the middle of the snacks aisle, blinking at the many varieties of crackers he’s never heard of before. Some of these are imported, the packages printed in different languages. _Definitely the kinda grocery store Shu’d come to._ He looks down at his phone, sighing, alone for now while Shu wanders off to find cheese.

He’s in the clear. Mika opens Google, types— slowly, carefully, as if he’s afraid to say it— _coughing up flowers_. Even just remembering makes him uneasy, makes the tickle in his throat come back. Breathing erratically, he reads, horror rising in his throat just as steadily as the flowers.

> _The Hanahaki Disease is an illness born from one-sided love, where the patient throws up or coughs up flower petals. The infection can be removed through surgery, but the feelings disappear along with the petals. It can be cured without side effects only when the feelings are returned._

Mika feels it, then, climbing up his windpipe. He doesn’t know where the flowers come from; what if they sprout in his lungs and all he can do is expel them? If he doesn’t, they’ll run him over, branching and blooming and winding around his bronchi, a beautiful, deadly imitation. He tastes violets underneath his tongue, fragrant and bittersweet, and before he can stop it he doubles over and coughs a few of them into his hands.

For a long, breathless moment, Mika stands in the aisle, eyes flitting back and forth between the phone screen and the vibrant purple flowers in his palm.

 _Born from one-sided love_. Growing inside him, delicate vines inching up his trachea, the back of his throat tastes like the moment a child first bites down on a rose petal only to find that it does not taste how it smells. Feeding on his longing, his reaching for something, someone, that he will never have.

Quietly, Mika clutches the violets in his fist and shoves them into the pocket of his plaid pants. He scrolls down, and his stomach drops. 

> _Its infection route is through contact with vomited flowers._

A stark image of the forget-me-not pinched between Shu’s thumb and index finger. Mika’s head throbs. _Nazuna-nii, he’s gonna get it too ‘cause of Nazuna-nii, and it’s never gonna go away and he’ll die and it’ll be all my fault, all my damned fault—_

He chokes, and the sob that wrenches itself from its throat is accompanied by an untarnished, silky yellow petal. It barely looks as if it’s been in his body at all; like it could have just dropped pure and innocent from a bloom. Mika brings it up to his nose and smells.

Roses.

This time they are not red, but yellow.

_I really am the worst, huh._

 

* * *

 

Shu comes back with an assortment of cheeses, nodding curtly at Mika. “We are done here. Unless, God forbid, there’s something you want.”

Mika wants to say, _I want to stop choking on flowers. I want to tell you how I feel. I want to die, or get cured, I want you to love me back. I don’t even know what this love is yet, it's confusing and I'm scared, but I want it. Whatever it is, I want it so that the flowers inside me will die and I can breathe enough again._

But instead, he manages the absolute opposite of all that.

“I wanna frozen pizza,” he mumbles.

Shu just sighs and grabs at the long hem of Mika’s sleeve, pulling him along to the frozen food aisle. His hand is so _close_ , right there, Mika could just poke his fingers out and grab it, entwining their fingers, indulging himself in the softness of Shu’s hand for however small a moment—

The petal that clings to the inside of Mika’s throat, that he quietly coughs into his elbow, is pink and triangular and soft, with a gentle curl. Some sort of lily, maybe— he doesn’t know exactly what, and he slips it into his pocket along with the crumpled violets, to look it up later. _Later,_ he thinks, because Shu has his sleeve between his fingers, the backs of their hands (covered by fabric, and yet…) bumping warmly together every so often, and he’s going to get a frozen pizza. Shu _never_ buys frozen pizza.

“Y’really are spoilin’ me,” Mika chirrups when they arrive near the freezers, and opens the door to a rush of frigid air, pulls down the thin box from the middle shelf.

“Don’t misunderstand, failure. You haven’t been eating enough lately…” Shu’s voice is sharp but not quite scolding, as if he’s _worried,_ and Mika thinks he feels the vines constricting his lungs loosen, if only slightly, if only for a little while.

 

* * *

 

Valkyrie’s next live, the first live featuring Mika, goes off without a hitch, but Shu still feels just as anxious as ever.

Lately he’s been on the verge of panicking, even more frantic than usual, the scenarios he writes getting harder and harder to perform. He only pushes himself harder for it, scaling up the pressure every time he has an idea for a new costume or routine, because none of his work feels _adequate_ anymore. It needs to be better, stronger, more intricate— he cannot go on simply following the footsteps of other idol performances anymore. Valkyrie is more than an idol unit— Valkyrie is artistry, an exquisite and iconoclastic vision, and the vision just becomes more complicated (and expensive) as time goes on. With three members now, it’s more complex, and the possibilities have opened up significantly— what he could not do with two, no matter how beautiful and talented and _perfect_ Nito is, he can arrange with three.

Except the third is a bit… difficult.

For all Kagehira Mika’s raw talent and unique aesthetic, he truly is a hard stone to chisel. Where Nito was soft, pliant, willing in his masterful hands, Kagehira is rough around the edges, unrefined and unreasonably resistant to change. He is a beautiful doll, yes, but never obedient, joints always hard to bend, always smiling on his own accord. More skin than porcelain, something soft but decidedly not fragile, not easily breakable.

Very, very human. Not what Shu ordered or expected. His presence… it makes it hard to breathe sometimes. Whenever Shu catches his mismatched eyes, peering up through his bangs curiously at him, a spark of anxiety catches in his chest, and he feels almost breathless, as if he’s constantly running in circles, exhausting all of his strength just to keep Kagehira in line. It’s no wonder he’s harsh with the boy, snapping at him, firing off sharp words— Kagehira is like stone against his repeated insults (humans are so unusually _resilient,_ ) nothing like Nito who cries diamonds and could shatter at a misplaced touch. At least it gives him something to rail against, when Shu can’t find kind words for _anyone_ much less himself. And if nothing else, Kagehira is _new,_ unfamiliar and thrilling, a struggle against everything he’s been able to easily manipulate.

Lately during practices, in the middle of solos, he’s been feeling a gentle tension crawl up the back of his windpipe, the urge to cough and clear his throat, like something is stuck there, _growing_ there. One of these days he’s sure it will ruin his performance, which is another reason why his work is so frantic. He tries not to think about it more than once, but it’s annoying, potentially threatening— and almost disturbing how often it occurs. Like there is water gathering, pushing behind a dam, and there is only so long it can hold.

 

* * *

 

Kagehira is worn down to the core after a particularly intense practice, and Shu walks home in the evening with him leaning heavily over his shoulder. He’s snuffling and breathing unsteadily, messily on the stitches of Shu’s school jacket. He’s become awfully heavy— it’s impeding his movement, he wants to get home as soon as possible so he can put this literal _child_ to bed and work on the dress for Nito, and he almost wonders if carrying him would be easier after all.

The thought doesn’t get far before Shu acts on it. The boy is featherweight and warm in his arms, elbows pointy and limbs draping. Graceless and hot to the touch, sweat dripping down his temple from the line of his hair, Kagehira has literally been asleep on his feet and now he’s asleep in Shu’s arms, motionless, his face pressed into the dip between Shu’s shoulder and neck. Like some sort of front backpack. The situation would be amusing if it weren’t so clumsy, so imperfect, so strangely warm in his chest, with his failure of a current project all clingy and nuzzly and _asleep in his arms_ , resting peacefully…

He feels the itch in his throat before he even knows what's happening, and Shu heaves a cough, suddenly desperate and uncontrollable, turning his face at an awkward angle into his unoccupied shoulder (don’t want to get Mika— _Kagehira_ all dirty,) and feels something gentle, tasteless but slightly plant-bitter, under his tongue.

When he opens his eyes, there are cherry blossom petals scattered over the blue fabric of his school jacket.

 


	2. the fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After losing everything, a truth and a lie.

The thoughts just get more frequent, and so do the flowers.

Shu has learned how to hide them, when he starts to feel the flutter in his throat; he’s always finding excuses, convenient getaways, making sure Mika— _he’s been calling him Mika lately in his head and it’s killing him_ — never knows, never finds out. He hopes it’s not suspicious, because he can usually suppress it throughout Valkyrie’s practices, for the sake of his unit of course, but Nito _has_ been giving him strange looks when he walks in one minute late from locking himself in a toilet stall, coughing up gardenias into his palms. Beautiful Nito, so intricately connected to him, strings tied to Shu’s fingers even offstage, so inextricable that Shu can feel when Nito sees something wrong… He has to be careful. Nito especially cannot see this side of him.

The thoughts linger through practices and into the nights when Mika clings to him, wrapping almost all his limbs around Shu’s body, somehow keeping him from thrashing around in his sleep. It’s become a pattern, and Shu doesn’t even question it anymore— Mika now sleeps in Shu’s bed every single night. It only serves to make the intrusive, unwanted feelings, the fluttering of petals in his throat much worse. Most times the thoughts are innocent-- craving to run his hands through Mika's soft, messy hair, wanting to hold consciously like Mika holds when he’s asleep, wondering how warm Mika's hands would be in his-- but sometimes Shu has… baser, more impure thoughts, thoughts he refuses to entertain past the low, hot throb in his gut. Thoughts of Mika's cheeky, half-lidded smile, of entwining his fingers in Mika's hair as those mismatched eyes shine up at him, kneeling— _no, no, that's not right_. Can't spoil, can't taint, not Mika, never.

He doesn’t know when he started thinking of Mika the way he does of Nito, something pure and not to be ruined, something he cannot touch too much else he tangle the strings. But Mika’s strings are still wonky as ever, and Shu can’t move him the way he does Nito, but it’s a thrill to try. With Nito everything is simple. He is obedient, posable, spotless. Shu must be delicate. But Mika— sometimes Shu has to yank, sometimes he struggles, and sometimes he stops trying to control him at all.

Slowly, he starts to believe that maybe perfection is not the end goal.

Maybe Mika is better imperfect.

 

* * *

 

He’s been swallowing flowers for the better part of a day when it finally comes time for Valkyrie's after-school practice. Shu hopes it doesn't get in the way, that he doesn't end up coughing up petals in the middle of leading the routine, but he thinks (he hopes) he has enough self-control to keep it in. His unit depends on him, after all, and he cannot show weakness if they are to be perfect.

He strides into the handicrafts club room first to gather Mika, in case the boy is still lingering here as he tends to do, but when he opens the door, no one is there but Kiryu Kuro, who looks up at him with one raised eyebrow.

"Yo," he says, lifts his right hand from where he's been embroidering the lapel of a jacket.

"I thought you stopped using this room?" Shu marches over to Kiryu's workspace. His childhood friend is smiling, relaxed as he pulls the string tight with an expert motion of his large hand. "You do not even belong to this club. Who let you in?"

"Aw, c'mon, Itsuki. You know you woulda let me in if I'd asked." Kiryu leans back a bit in his chair. Shu can't actually deny that one. Having Kiryu still connected to him by this thread is comforting, at least. "What's with the worried face? You got something on your mind? Talk to me."

Shu clicks his tongue, sniffing. "I do not have time for idle chatter. Of course I have something on my mind, I always do, else I would not be thinking at all, yes?"

"Okay, I didn't mean like that. You just look troubled. And pale-- have ya been eating lately?"

Shu bristles at the question. "Don't stick your nose into my personal matters, Kiryu." But there's something warm inside him that tells him he should at least let Kiryu know that yes, he _did_ at least eat today. "I had lunch, so don't worry about me."

"Alright, good. Just checking," Kiryu shrugs, looks back down at his work. "...You know I'm here for you," he finally says with a sigh, letting go of the thread and stretching backwards. "At least let me do this much for you."

"I don't need it," Shu huffs, looks away, but there's a twinge of regret in his stomach at the words.

"Admit it, you do," Kiryu says, and his voice is surprisingly hard, startling Shu enough for him to look down towards him. Kiryu's green eyes meet his.

It's strange and almost scary how well they see through Shu, how absolutely _pierced_ he feels when Kiryu looks at him like that. Shu ducks his head, has to look away under the sudden surge of defenselessness he feels. "I suppose," he mumbles, his hands fluttering. "But this isn't the time. I have practice in ten minutes, and I need to find Kagehira before then. Have you seen him?"

"I saw him getting out of class with Narukami," Kiryu says. His eyes finally focus back down on the sewing project, and Shu almost breathes an audible sigh of relief, both at knowing Mika is safe and being released from the vicegrip that Kiryu's eyes had him in. "Ten minutes is fine, Itsuki. Let him relax for a moment, he needs it as much as you do."

"What do you know about M-- Kagehira," Shu snarls defensively, catching his tongue at the near-slip of his first name. "He is fine the way he is."

"Even if he is, you still need a break," Kiryu insists, and Shu finally relents, sitting in the chair across the table from his childhood friend. "Stop hiding things from me. Tell me what's on your mind."

Shu looks down, fidgeting in his lap, his fingers making the repetitive motions he knows so well, the ones that soothe him-- pierce, tug, roll the wrists, weaving. "I am worried about Valkyrie," he finally says, which is true, but it's not exactly what's on his mind at this very second, so it's fine, right? "The new Dreamfes system is... not good for our image, does not agree with our style of performing. Kagehira is stubborn as ever, Nito's voice has changed, and he has not been coming to practice regularly anymore. I've had to make adjustments for the Lives... And he doesn't _smile_ at me-- I can't stand it..."

He doesn't say how his mind has been snapping back to thoughts of Mika, soft, affectionate thoughts, that he can't seem to get under control; he doesn't say that not only is Nito not smiling enough, Mika is smiling too _much_ for his heart to handle; and he definitely does not say that there are flowers growing in his lungs that make it so, so hard to breathe.

And then, at the worst possible moment, Shu doubles over into a coughing fit. Blue and pink hydrangea petals empty themselves from his throat, landing in his lap as he hunches over to conceal them, but they fall between his knees and onto the linoleum floor. He curls into himself, trying to keep them hidden, and Kiryu's hand is on his back, firm thumps to loosen the flowers clogging his windpipe and let them escape.

"Ah, ahh, hhh," Shu whimpers, still contorted in a ball, eyes starting to sting with tears. The fear of showing this kind of weakness, the fear that Kiryu will see, or worse, somehow catch it himself-- Shu chokes out a strangled sob, burying his face in his hands, and Kiryu is rubbing his back now, soothingly, letting Shu cry it out.

"Itsuki," he says, and his voice is oddly shaky. "Icchan. What are these?"

"Don't touch them," Shu immediately snaps, knowing exactly what Kiryu is talking about. "J-Just ignore them, don't look, it's-- it's so shameful, I..."

Kiryu's large, warm hand rests in Shu's hair. He tugs a little, urging, and Shu finally raises his head, vision clouded with tears. Kiryu is looking at him, more worried, more _afraid_ than Shu has ever seen him.

"It was going around, wasn't it," he comments cryptically, before truly stroking through Shu's hair this time, letting Shu break into another set of sobs. "I know not to touch it, I've seen this before."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Kiryu sighs. "One of my unit members has had it for a real long time. I don't know if it'll go away on its own, either; the situation's kinda hopeless."

Shu vaguely remembers Wataru saying something along those lines, that someone else had it bad for Tenshouin, who would never truly love them back...

"Hasumi?"

"Yup," Kiryu says, and his voice is so _sad_ Shu feels himself tear up anew. "We're trying to convince him to get it removed."

"And he won't listen?"

"Nope." Kiryu's brow is creased in an even deeper worry than before. "Doesn't want to forget his feelings. I guess I can understand, but he's been just as sick as the Emperor lately, and I..." The deep, firm voice Shu knows so well suddenly cracks. "I don't want him to die for someone who won't love him back."

Dimly, Shu ponders that.

 _Would I die for this?_ he asks himself. _Would I want to continue feeling this, something I barely understand, while slowly suffocating for the sake of someone who deserves so much more than my broken, inadequate love?_

And oh God, it hurts to breathe when Shu realizes-- the answer to these kinds of questions in the past would always be no, but suddenly, somehow, he feels a _maybe_ blooming in his throat along with the flowers.

He hunches down further, tears running freely as Kiryu's arm drapes over his shoulders, and neither of them talk for a long time. There is nothing left to say between the two. Shu knows what Kiryu must be thinking.

_Take care of yourself first._

But he's never been good at that, has he?

_Ryuu-kun. Surely you must understand._

 

* * *

 

Practice speeds by, Shu's mind still spinning with questions, and he knows he's probably missed too many steps, shown a shabby example for Nito and Mika, but all he wants right now is to get home and lock himself up in his room until everything stops feeling so damn _overwhelming_. He gathers his things together, doesn't even stop to talk to Nito after practice even though he knows he needs to confront him over his truancy soon, and rushes to the restroom to change out of his practice clothes. No one is in there, which is a relief, and Shu makes a disgusted face as he undoes the clunky belt (why is it here anyway?), peels the sweaty white V-neck from his body, yanks the cropped pants off his hips and lets them puddle on the floor. Stepping out of the leg holes, his thoughts flash to Mika, to the warm nuzzle of a fluffy head against his back at night. He clears his throat, and clumps of thin, spindly stamens fall from his tongue-- thank God the cactus _itself_ isn't growing in his lungs, is all he can think as he brushes them into his hands and flushes them down the toilet.

"Oshi-saaan?"

_Damn it._

Mika's voice is curious and echoing in the bathroom, but he's staying at the door, which is good. "Ya in here? I'm waitin', so whenever yer ready we can get goin'..."

"Patience, Kagehira," Shu snaps, throws on his ruffled short-sleeve and buttons it up with skilled, swift fingers. He pulls on a pair of slacks, rushes to get a belt on, and stuffs the damp practice clothes into the duffel bag, slamming open the stall door with his foot. "All right, time to go. You will change when we get home, I presume?" Looking Mika up and down, Shu sniffs in slight disdain. "You smell of sweat. I'll have you bathe when we return; make sure to hand over your practice clothes so I can wash them for tomorrow."

"Yeah, I know," Mika admits, putting an arm up and sniffing at the sleeve of his shirt. "Ick. 'S better I change at home, since it's so hot out I don't wanna get my other clothes all sweaty too. Just more laundry for Oshi-san, anyway, so..."

"At least you're thinking ahead. I wasn't sure the stuffing in your brain was capable of that," Shu says, as they walk back towards the exit. "Ah, what's this in your hand? Let me see."

Mika looks down, shies away from Shu's grabbing fingers for a second before handing it over. "Uhh, I didn't know if ya'd want to see it, it'd prob'ly make ya mad..."

"Another challenge letter from Tenshouin? Honestly, when will he stop," Shu grimaces, crumpling it in one hand and stuffing it in the pocket of his plaid uniform slacks. "We can ignore it for now. Ah, what a pain. I'm already in a bad enough mood today without this."

"Somethin' happen?" Mika looks up, questioning. Shu has to look away from those wide, innocent eyes. "Wanna candy? Always makes me feel better."

"Why would I want something so cheap and common," Shu snaps, but for some reason, he finds that he _does_ want one. He decides to indulge Mika just a bit, if only to see his smile. "Fine. If you have a lemon one, that would be preferable."

"'Course I got one! Lemon candy's an essential, y'see." Mika grins, ear to ear, and Shu feels the shortness of breath coming on again as Mika's hand reaches into his pocket and pulls out a delicately-wrapped yellow candy, almost _deliberately_ brushing Shu's palm with the tips of his fingers as he hands it over. _Is he trying to kill me?!_ "Here ya go, Oshi-san. Hope ya like it!"

Shu doesn't answer, unwraps the candy with slightly shaking hands. Tentatively, he pops it in his mouth, and sweetness spreads across his tongue, something welcome after the fragrant bitterness of flowers. He didn't think he could ever appreciate cheap candy so much, but...

"Nnah, Oshi-san," Mika giggles, looking bashful, a blush spreading across his features. "Yer smilin'..."

Shu slaps a hand over his mouth, absolutely _humiliated_. "I-- I am doing nothing of the sort!" But his eyes linger on the corners of Mika's lips, thin and pink, almost kissable, and then he swallows the candy without even chewing.

 

* * *

 

"What sort of childish game is this?!"

Mika flinches back at Shu's raised voice, even though it's not directed at him; seeing Shu angry is a scary, scary thing, and seeing him angry about being out of control is worse. Shu is pacing at the window, holding the phone to his ear-- Mika can barely hear the words coming through it, but it's a sonorous, low voice that he's sure is probably Kiryu Kuro's, and worry creases his brow at the prospect of what might be happening.

"To decide something so onesidedly...! Ah, but I wouldn't expect anything else from that so-called student council," Shu continues. "What rank, then?"

Oh. _Oh_. Mika's stomach flips. They hadn't accepted Eichi's challenge letter, so Mika thought they were safe, but--

"S1--?!" Shu literally shrieks, startling Mika so badly he jumps in his seat, causing a squeak from the springs of the antique chair. "But that's ridiculous! No one can simply drag my Valkyrie into such vulgar performances! We haven't lost a Live, and so, and so..." He trails off, begins to pace anew, and Mika watches a drop of sweat form on his hairline and trickle to his jaw.

_That's right. We're his Valkyrie, ain't we?_

"Not against such a fleeting, temporary, classless unit, we won't," Shu growls into the phone. "They have nothing to their name but riches, no art whatsoever-- names, even, what sort of name _is_ fine anyway?! At least add the _accent_ if you want people to know the pronunciation, honestly, this isn't beginners' French!"

Mika has to stifle a laugh, at that. Shu's head snaps around, glaring directly at him, so sharp Mika has to cower. _That's not gonna work. Never again_.

"Ahh, well. Again, nothing I would not expect from that miserable Tenshouin." Mika thinks he can hear Kiryu's low, chuckling laugh over the phone. "Fine. I'll have to make... preparations. We will not lose." Shu slams the 'end call' button, muttering darkly under his breath. "Kagehira, you miserable creature, were you listening?"

"S-Sorry, Oshi-san. 'S hard not to listen when you're all worked up, I get worried..."

Shu clicks his tongue disapprovingly. "I suppose it cannot be helped. You are then aware of the situation, I presume." He sighs, and Mika can see his throat bob as he swallows hard. "We will be doubling practice time for the next week in preparation. I will make sure you are eating, you've been awfully tired in practices and it's affecting your performance. Do you understand the gravity of the situation we are in?"

Mika nods.

"Good," Shu breathes, lowering his head. "Do not let me down."

"I won't, Oshi-san," Mika says, but suddenly he doesn't feel too sure of himself. It's not that Shu is making him feel worse; rather, it's almost encouraging that Shu sees him as integral enough to Valkyrie that a bad performance by him could bring them down-- but Mika's breath has been coming short, his legs and arms have been weak, and he never gets hungry anymore, forgets to eat and collapses in the hallways for Arashi to pick him up like he's a discarded doll and carry him to the infirmary.

He knows it's because of the flowers.

He is clunky, rusted lately, choked with vines, and honestly, Mika wouldn't blame Shu if he had gotten fed up and dumped him somewhere; maybe he deserves it, for feeling such a way, for striving towards something he cannot have instead of being thankful he's at Shu's side at all.

Lavender doesn't taste half as good as it smells, he finds out later, clearing the bitterness from his lungs.

 

* * *

 

The moment the music dies, Kagehira Mika forces himself into life.

Strings snap when his mouth opens, and he looks out into the crowd and feels the surge of flowers in his throat-- but instead of coughing, instead of sinking to his knees and spilling morning glories all over the stage, he sings. He sings through the curling vines, he sings through the scrape of petals in his windpipe, he sings until he's trembling and tears are dripping slowly from his eyes, and for the first time, he hears his voice resounding-- past the booing of the audience, past the relentless pounding of his own heart.

He loves Valkyrie with everything he has, with every flower that blooms in his lungs, and in these final, sinking moments, Kagehira Mika thinks: he wouldn't mind dying just like this.

 

* * *

 

Shu isn’t thinking. He doesn’t consider the fact that both Nito and Mika are still at the school, nor does he consider that he might run into people he knows on his way home, people that saw what happened on stage, he just _has to get out._ He has to _leave,_ he’s stumbling over his own feet, barely even remembering to get the house key as he explodes from the back stagedoors and trips into a pained sob. The night is suffocating and cold and quiet around him, the world is staring at him, the world is watching his humiliation, he has to get home, _he has to get home_.

Still in his Valkyrie outfit (the outfit he will have to burn soon, or wrap in plastic and lock away in the attic, because he will never _ever_ be able to wear it again, his beloved Valkyrie is _dead_ ,) he hides his face in his sleeve as he runs, the heels of his boots conflicting against the rough pavement, and he’s coughing up flowers the whole way back to his house. They are long, spindly, curled petals, red like the memory of the uniform, like the blood in his body that reminds him he’s human too, and it’s only when Shu doubles over in an alley and hacks up an entire bloom that he realizes they’re _spider lilies_.

There are _red spider lilies_ poking from the corners of Shu’s mouth, and he is suffocating on them.

The legends say that when one is about to meet someone they will never meet again, red spider lilies will bloom along the path. They have been blooming in his lungs all along, ready to spill out the moment he is abandoned. This is the path to his house, where Kagehira Mika lives alongside him, where he has spent days upon days sewing and embroidering and piecing together dolls, and where he has now, very unfortunately, fallen in love.

Shu wonders if somehow, if things had been different, he would have been loved back. If he had known what affection was, if he had let Nito sing, if he had given his most beloved dolls their own will instead of bending everything to his. If he had treated the two most important people in his world like they were _people_ , maybe he would have been able to taste the sweetness he is so _sure_ lingers constantly on Mika’s lips.

But all Shu has now is regret, and it tastes like poisonous flowers.

 

* * *

 

Shu has been in the master bathroom for thirty minutes and Mika is starting to get scared.

He can hear the sounds of Shu’s pain through the door; heavy, choking sobs interspersed with hoarse retching, wet chest coughs echoing through the marble-tiled room. Since he got home Shu hasn’t come out, and Mika debates going in, in case this is a sign of more than just his emotional agony. He had gotten back later than Shu did, after all, and he wouldn’t know if Shu had _taken_ something or— or _done_ something while he was out. He could be sitting outside the bathroom while Shu is _dying_ , and not even _doing_ anything about it.

The idea that Shu could very well be fighting his own body not to throw up _pills_ is what does it, and Mika panics, shooting up from the bed and wiping the unbidden tear from his one blue eye as he pushes open the door, not even knocking, terrified.

“Oshi-san! Oshi-san, wh—”

 

And the very last vestiges of Mika’s weakening conviction that Shu wasn’t sick— not sick like he was, at least, and that this was a physical reaction to emotions, nothing more— they all vanish when he is faced with a trail of red spider lilies over the white marble tile.

 

Numbly, he picks one up off the floor, staring at it like it could give him the answers to every ember of a question burning holes in his stomach. Shu whips around, eyes burning in fear and desperation, and screams louder than Mika has ever heard him— a horrific, shrill, utterly paralyzing shriek, so piercing that Mika wants to run and hide forever—

“ _Don’t!_ Don’t come in, don’t _touch_ those, you’ll—” His knees give out, and Shu hits the floor with a painful thump, hands clawing over his face in an attempt to hide the redness of his eyes and the flowers spilling from his lips. He’s scraping at his skin, leaving raw red marks down his cheeks, so much unadulterated fear in his expression, more than Mika could ever imagine. “—too late, I’ve ruined it, now you’ll die like I am, now you’ll—”

Mika clears his throat, opens his mouth to let a single white chrysanthemum fall into his hands. Shu goes silent, shoulders still heaving, panicking hands still masking his face.

“Now you know,” Mika says, but his voice doesn’t carry through the whole way. He drops to Shu’s side, kneeling in the scattered _manjushage_ , the lonesome figure moving on the banks of Higan. He can’t help but cry now, even though he had wanted to show a strong face to his mentor, wanted to be a pillar to lean on; just the way that Shu looks, torn up and terrified and utterly _ruined,_ flowers in his lap and poking from the corner of his lips, eyes swollen so badly he wonders how Shu can even see, is enough to shake the last bits of stability Mika has into tears.

“…You too…”

Shu’s voice is so weak that Mika has to strain to understand. He scoots closer, clearing a path through the mess of spider lilies, and tentatively puts a hand on Shu’s knee.

“’S been like this for a while,” Mika admits, and the self-deprecating, bitter smile that passes his face is almost ironic. “I must’ve given it to ya. ’S my fault.”

Shu remembers the forget-me-not he had plucked from Mika's uniform. _He's right._ "Yes, yes it is, but if I wasn't so shameful," he finally says, not specifying _what_ it is that is so shameful (the fact he feels this way about _anyone_ , let alone his failed creation-- a doll and his maker? _preposterous_ , it could _never_ happen) but Mika already knows. He reaches up with a soft hand, touching Shu's face, and Shu only halfway recoils before he feels the excessive warmth of Mika's hand and almost melts into it. _How disgusting_ , he thinks, _I've fallen from grace._

"Don' think it's shameful," Mika says, eyes darting down to look at the spider lilies again, the most human color red. "'S happenin' to me too."

"That makes you just as shameful, failure," Shu tries to snap, but it comes out as a wavering sob when Mika's thumb brushes against the apple of his cheek, purposefully, deliberately.

"Huh," Mika intones, as if he's never thought of it that way before. "Yeah, I guess so. 'M pretty dumb, so yer always lookin' after me... but y'can't really do that when you can barely look after yourself."

"Don't just freely decide I'm so weak," Shu mutters, but he knows, he knows he really is, and another curled petal pokes from the corner of his lips. Mika's expression sags.

"Oshi-san, I can't stand ta see ya like this," Mika admits, tearful, hiding his eyes instinctively. "Y'should just confess to Nazuna-nii already, he's already far enough away that nothin' could really go wrong."

Shu's heart freezes over, prickling with ice, his whole body beginning to feel cold.

_He thinks I love Nito. He thinks it's been Nito all this time._

The realization sparks a terrifying question, floating up like a secret from the bottom of a darkened well:

_Should I tell him?_

"Oshi-san," Mika literally whimpers, slumping forward, digging his fingertips into Shu's shirt, "please. I'm beggin' you, I don't wanna see you die."

Shu doesn't respond. He can't speak, can't move, can't breathe. He feels the upward strain of vines in his throat, prepares himself for the inevitable surge of petals and pain.

"Or... or is it 'cause..." Mika's voice cracks. "It's not Nazuna-nii...?"

 

It's unbearable.

The idea that Mika could see through him, could tell that his prioritizing Nito was a cover for the way Shu has been feeling all along, pointing Mika towards the idea that the flowers growing in his lungs are for Nito— Shu doubles over into Mika's arms and coughs a blizzard of primrose over his back. The pain screams through his lungs, making his already emotion-heavy breathing even more agonizing and irregular, and Mika yelps, gathering Shu up to him almost protectively. There's a soft hand combing through his hair, another rubbing his back, coaxing the last blooms out from inside. Mika smells like sugar, but also distinctly floral, a combination of the flowers that have spilled from both of their mouths.

"Shh, Oshi-san, hey, breathe— breathe," Mika tries, but his otherwise soothing voice is choked with tears, trembling and just as unsure as Shu is. "Tell me who it is."

Shu shakes his head.

 _It can't be me that those flowers are growing for,_ he thinks. _It can't possibly be someone like me, someone so broken and dysfunctional and cruel. I cannot even get a kind word out when it comes to you even though they sit there behind my lips. Not someone like me, not someone as cold and heartless and controlling, you're only here because you can't go home and you can't leave school and you don't have the money for any other option, I must be trapping you, you don't owe me anything so please, please, it has to be someone like Narukami, someone who can show you affection and reassure you because Gods know you need reassurance and I can't give it to you, someone gentle like Nito giving you a way out, that you love so much even though he betrayed us, someone— anyone— but me—_

_I would die if you rejected me. I'd rather die than be alone. I'd rather die, I'd rather suffocate on bitter vines, bite down on poisonous petals than watch you turn away from me like Nito did._

_I'd rather die than see you hate me._

 

"Is it me?"

Silence drops over them. Shu makes his decision.

 

_...And even if it really were me that you loved, I know that I do not deserve to be cured._

 

"No."

 

* * *

 

They get ready for bed without a word. Shu does not comb Mika’s hair as he usually does. Mika does not ask for maintenance; he doesn’t ask for anything, just looks down sadly most of the time, quiet as a crow with its vocal cords torn out. Shu can’t bring himself to say anything, or even touch Mika, though he wants nothing more than to hold him and take all of it back. The vines are starting to take over, and Shu blinks back tears of pain as he heaves for breath with Mika on the other side of the bed, cold and alone.

Eventually Mika drops into slumber, and Shu is still awake, staring at the crystals of the chandelier, glinting weakly in the half moonlight. He moves closer, allows himself to rest a hand on Mika’s shoulder, then up into his soft, just-dried hair. Mika doesn’t stir, doesn’t even push his head up into Shu’s palm. Just sleeps, his forehead creased into a gentle worry, and Shu suddenly wants to protect him from the nightmares he’s sure he must be having. So fragile, so vulnerable right now, and the tenderness in his chest turns into vines, which tighten mercilessly around his bronchi.

Shu only whispers the words when he’s sure Mika is fast asleep. _I love you. I’m sorry. You’re the world to me._ He chokes on the last one, feels the silky-soft dread rising in his throat, and, as quietly as he can, coughs up a single sagiso.

_My thoughts will follow you into your dreams._

 


	3. after the fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starting over, needing solace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a death in the family and a lot of resulting traveling led me to do this kind of late, plus i realized there was no way i could fit an entire year into the third part so i've decided to further split this up into five. sorry

Shu doesn't love him.

The flowers get worse, overrunning his lungs, and Mika can't keep it a secret anymore; if he holds them in until he's out of sight, they'll just grow and grow until he chokes on them entirely. The more he thinks about it, the more bitter the taste, the more he has to expel from his throat.

Shu doesn't love him. It was a stupid question, he should have known, there's absolutely no way his Oshi-san would ever love him the way he does Nazuna, but it still hurts. It hurts in the way a ritual burn would; his hand in the fire, skin blistering and sizzling and all by his own will. An expected pain, but even worse for it.

Mika knows he’s not much, that he’s clumsy and mismatched and rough around the edges, disobedient and disorganized, nothing like what Shu wants and needs. Nazuna’s eyes are an unearthly red, his features delicate as porcelain, something faerie and unreal, something that Shu cherished. But faeries are fickle creatures, and again, he should have seen this coming, that Nazuna would disappear and that Shu would be… like this.

It’s a jealous, bitter thought that rises to Mika’s mind next.

_If I left like that, Oshi-san wouldn’t care at all, would he?_

Yellow roses fill his mouth. Mika opens his lips, lets them tumble into his lap.

In the middle of class, no less.

At least he sits in the back corner, isolating himself as much as he possibly can, so he's not sure if anyone notices, until he looks up and meets the eyes of a single Isara Mao, staring concernedly at the single tear on his face, at the petal stuck to the front of his jacket.

Akiomi-sensei is still lecturing, but Mika can't hear, doesn't notice anything but the burning shame in his chest that spreads throughout his limbs and into his fingertips. He casts his eyes down, frantically brushing his bangs over his face, and Mao thankfully leaves it, giving him a worried frown and an almost pitying look in his eyes. _Ugh_ , Mika thinks. _Hope he doesn't go talkin'._

He wonders how Shu is doing. Being in classes without him is scary enough, even if Arashi is there, and now Shu isn't even there at handicrafts club after school, doesn't hold practices anymore. He stays home, now, doesn't eat or move, just waits for Mika to return. Mika has to bring the schoolwork home to him, but he never actually sees Shu do it. Yet somehow it's always complete at the end of the day, piling up on Shu's antique desk, the familiar scrawl of Shu's looping handwriting dark and bold even now. Sometimes Mika studies it when Shu is asleep, as if the words on the page, no matter how mundane, are proof that Shu is still alive as long as his hands are moving.

Mika excuses himself for the bathroom, loneliness tightening his lungs, making his breathing stutter audibly. He rushes into a stall, slams the door behind him, and without even locking it, falls onto his knees and heaves a blizzard of erica heather over the toilet seat and across the tile floor. _Oh no_ , his mind repeats, on high alert as his throat burns, _oh no oh no oh no. What to do?_

The pain suddenly surges, constricting around his ribcage, effectively knocking the breath from Mika's lungs, and another flurry of tiny purple flowers spills out, along with a few drops of blood. This time, Mika feels a spike of fear, realizing-- this isn't just an inconvenience anymore, this is _hurting_ now, this has the potential to kill him, and it _will_ kill him, if Shu never loves him back.

But somehow, he thinks he might be okay with that, and the fear subsides, blunted by the feeling of acceptance that weighs his heart.

 

_I'm willin' to die like this. I'll go with grace. Oshi-san's dyin', too-- Valkyrie is dyin', and up till now it's all I had._

_So it's fine. It's all gonna be fine. I'd rather die still lovin' him than live on without him. I'd rather be with him in the dark than alone in the light._

 

It's this new acceptance that stays with him once he's expelled the last of the erica. He flushes what he can, stands up on his shaky knees, and leaves the restroom, not even bothering to clean up the rest. Before he can leave, however, another perfect red camellia passes his lips, and he holds it in his two hands, suddenly understanding.

_In love; perishing with grace._

 

* * *

 

Narukami Arashi is popular, beautiful, cheerful and bright, and apparently, she is very, very worried about Mika.

“Mika-chaaaan,” she calls, poking her head into the handicrafts club room. Mika’s the only one there; the room is hauntingly lonely, echoes even with the plethora of fabrics draped everywhere. Shu isn’t here. He hasn’t come to school in a week, and Arashi notices the bags under Mika’s eyes, the heaviness in his voice as he blinks up curiously.

"Oh, Naru-chan, what's up?" Mika's sunken mood immediately lightens, if only a little, at Arashi's breathy voice and bright eyes. "Y'wanna hang out here with me for a little? It's kinda lonely."

"Looks like it," Arashi sighs. "Honey, you haven't eaten today, I didn't see you in the cafeteria-- come with me, I'll treat you to something sweet, a parfait or something? Come on," she coaxes, resting her hand over Mika's where it's been pulling out a crooked stitch. "You need to get out, the bear can wait."

"Naru-chaaaaan," Mika complains, but he doesn't resist Arashi's gentle tug to his feet. He's still gripping at the half-sewed up bear plush, pouting halfheartedly. "But I can't eat fancy sweets, y' know that, I gotta finish Bear Bear before this weekend too..."

"Bear Bear?" Arashi quirks up an eyebrow, playfully. Mika slumps his head onto her shoulder, blushing a bit.

"Wanted to give 'im to Oshi-san... He likes when I make stuff all on my own."

"I'm not sure that's..." Arashi smiles sadly, looking at the dilapidated bear, all messy seams and paisley fabric. She almost comments that it's not exactly what she imagined to be to Shu's... _discerning..._ tastes, but Mika has already done this before, judging by the deep belief in his eyes, and Arashi supposes Mika knows Shu better than she does. "Wanna take him to my house, then? I'm not great at sewing, but I could help if you'd like. The more hands the better, right?" She winks. Mika just sticks his bottom lip out even further. _No good!_

"Sorry, Naru-chan. I wanna be able to say I made this all on my own, y'know?" He huffs a little laugh, still pinching the seam closed between his thumb and index finger. "Thanks fer the offer, though. If... If ya wanna keep me company here, that'd be the best."

"Oh, all right," Arashi concedes, settling Mika back into his chair. "But at _least_ let me buy you something to eat, you look starving."

Arashi's tone tightens audibly on the last sentence, and Mika has to give in. He knows he hasn't been eating right, but Shu hasn't been eating at _all,_  and Mika doesn't really want to take his own health into account when Shu is just... so _broken_. He hasn't left his bed in a week. Something has split off within him, and Mado-nee seems to be the only one willing to talk to Mika anymore.

(Which he doesn't really mind-- Mado-nee is _nice_ , she's really good at reassuring him, but it's not his Oshi-san, and he's reminded too harshly of that fact every time Shu's voice spikes into that sweet falsetto that isn't exactly his.)

"Okay, okay, fine. Not too much, though, still feelin' a little sick." Mika grabs the needle and thread, happy to get his hands moving again at least. "Curry? And I guess somethin' sweet is fine, yer gonna have to finish it for me though."

"Of course," Arashi giggles, winks as she turns and strides long, swaying steps to the door. "I'll be back in a snap!"

And the door shuts.

Really, Arashi is too kind to him. Too sweet and pretty and buys him food and pets his hair. Being around her makes Mika's lungs feel a little looser, makes the weight that seems to be constantly dragging him down feel a little lighter. He likes Arashi, he really does, and dimly Mika thinks he should have taken her up on the offer to hang out at her place, because being with Shu now is the same as being alone, and he doesn't want to be alone.

"Ugh," he mutters, sewing the seam up, patching the two mismatching paisley fabrics together. Last time he gave Shu a stuffed animal that he made, Shu had scoffed and told him it was too messy, but Mika didn't miss the little smile twitching at the corner of Shu's lips, nor the fact that Sunday morning when Mika got up to make breakfast, he returned to fetch Shu from bed and saw him clinging happily to the button-eyed bunny in his sleep.

But Shu doesn't smile anymore. Not even a little. _Hopefully,_ he thinks, _Bear Bear will at least keep him company when he gets all lonely like he does._

Before Mika knows it, he finds himself wishing he wore some sort of cologne regularly, a scent to associate with him that Shu could take comfort in. It's an embarrassing thought, and Mika isn't even sure Shu would care if it smelled like him, but it sticks nonetheless. He settles for taking off his jacket, taking the pair of sewing scissors to the ripped, askew hem of his right sleeve. _I'll sew it up for real later,_ he thinks, cutting the hem down to its original length, back before he picked out the stitches to let it fall long over his wrist.

It's just Bear Bear's chest that needs to be stitched up next, but Mika realizes a little late that the piece of his jacket won't fit unless he trims down the sides of the seam, so he carefully takes out enough of the fabric from both sides and lays the strip of his jacket over the gap. He grabs the pencil and scribbles faint graphite marks into the blue fabric, then cutting that down to size.

 _Oshi-san'll prob'ly get mad I ruined my sleeves again,_  Mika realizes far too late, but any word from Shu is better than this silence, so he smiles, a little bitterly, and works on sewing the blue patch in to mend Bear Bear's opened chest.

 

_Ahh... wish I could do the same for him. Take a little piece of me, patch up the ripped seams on his heart..._

 

He sighs, coughs up a forget-me-not, and knows there's nothing to lose. Hesitantly, he sneaks it through the gap in the seam, digging out a little hole in the stuffing to rest it in. _There,_  he thinks. _Now he's got a real piece of me in him._

 

* * *

 

Arashi comes back with the promised curry and parfait, sits down next to Mika at the table littered with fabric and sewing paraphernalia. She has to clear a little spot, pushing some satin scraps away, carefully moving some sort of half-done outfit to the side in order to make room for the food. Mika’s throat feels tight— he doesn’t say anything, though, except a quiet “thank ya kindly~” and a little nod, but he opens the container on the curry and suddenly feels sick.

He stares at it for a few moments, then turns his face away and into his hands to cough up a spill of bluebells.

Arashi’s face goes pale. “Mika-chan,” she whispers, resting a hand on his shoulder, peering at him through long, curled eyelashes. “How long?”

There’s so much worry, so much _compassion_ in Arashi’s voice, and Mika starts crying right then and there, shoving the bluebells into his pockets to make sure Arashi doesn’t make unnecessary contact with them. He’s already ruined Shu with it; Mika doesn’t think he’d be able to bear it if the only other person who loved him anymore caught it from him too. Sniffling, he buries his face in the left sleeve of his jacket, the one that still has its long, picked-out hem. “A… A year, or so. Since I got here. I’m okay, though, ‘m not dying or anything yet…”

“Yet,” Arashi repeats, a little frustrated, but she wraps her arm around Mika’s shoulders and pulls him to her chest nonetheless. “And you haven’t told them yet? Or did you get rejected?”

Mika just sniffles, lets out a choked sob, and buries his face in the crook of Arashi’s neck, which is all the answer she really needs.

“Oh, _honey,_ ” Arashi sighs, brings her hand up to run through Mika’s soft, messy hair. “I’m so sorry. Ugh, I’ll guess—”

“Nonono, Naru-chan, y’don’t have to,” Mika mumbles, shoving himself back and wiping at his eyes. “I’ll tell ya. ’S Oshi-san. He… he’s too good fer me.”

“If he’s not treating you right, I’m going to have to give him a piece of my mind, you know…” Arashi warns, her heart feeling constricted and hot, almost snarling in indignation. Not a very good look for her, but still. Mika loves his Oshi-san so, so much, _and if Itsuki’s not at least taking good care of him either way,_ she thinks, _I won’t take that sitting down._

“No, he’s… he’s nice to me, ‘specially now, he’s gotten softer and Mado-nee is there too, she says the stuff he’s afraid to say, but…” Mika hesitates, looking at Arashi’s furrowed brows, wondering if she can keep a secret— she’s always been a bit of a talker, after all, but if it’s for him… “Can y’keep this a secret for me?”

Arashi nods.

“He’s got it too. The flowers, I mean. He picked it up from me, ’s all my fault, ’n he’s so much worse off than me…” Mika sighs, leaning back into Arashi’s shoulder, allowing himself at least this bit of comfort, this bit of self-indulgence, because God knows he doesn’t get it often enough. “I asked him who it was and he said it wasn’t me, I thought it mighta been Nazuna-nii, startin’ to doubt that though. Maybe it’s Ryuu-kun-sa— Uh, Kiryu-senpai, y’know, they’re—”

“Hold on. So he _told_ you it wasn’t you?” Arashi huffs out a breath, lets her hand run back up into Mika’s hair.

“Yeah,” Mika whimpers, barely audible in the shoulder of Arashi’s jacket. “But, uh, guess it’s better than never askin’ and bein’ unsure forever, y’know… Ahh, God, I’m such an idiot…”

“Mika-chan. _Darling._  Don’t say that, you know you’re much smarter than he gives you credit for…”

“He don’t really mean any of that mean stuff he says sometimes,” Mika points out, and he realizes the speed at which he always leaps to Shu’s defense hasn’t changed at all. “He’s bad at talkin’ and he’s scared if he says how he really feels he’s gonna get hurt. Don’t worry ‘bout me,” Mika nods, trying to reassure her, pulling back and looking up at Arashi with tearful, bright eyes. “I just gotta look after him, like he did for me. Even if it means… lettin’ these flowers choke me eventually. I can’t let him be alone.”

That really isn’t much reassurance at all. If anything, Mika has basically just told Arashi he would rather _die_ than get the flowers removed, but he doesn’t seem to realize it, and Arashi’s heart sinks as she combs through the back of his hair with her long, delicate fingers.

“He’s not… _hurting_ you, is he?”

“‘Course not,” Mika says, vehemently shaking his head and fluffing up his hair in the process. “He’d never. Oshi-san’s super gentle. He says mean things sometimes, but I know he doesn’t mean it. Only thing that hurts is bein’ in love with him, and knowin’ he doesn’t love me back.”

Arashi looks down. Honestly, she isn’t sure what to believe, but she knows Mika, she knows how resilient and understanding he is, and how much he’d be willing to do for the people he loves— she supposes she’ll have to just trust him.

“If you’re sure.” She leans down and places a tender kiss on the top of Mika’s head. “If things do get bad, you know where to find me.”

“Y-Yeah,” Mika says, blushing as Arashi’s lips make contact with his hair. _She kissed me! She kissed my head!_ Suddenly, he can’t help himself; he wants more of that easy, comfortable affection, feeling deprived and desperate, and he nuzzles into Arashi’s chest, giggling bashfully. “Hehe, do that again, ’s nice…”

“Oh no, did I do something?” Arashi pouts, holds her hand over her mouth, feigning surprise. Mika groans, butting his head against her shoulder, but he still manages a high breath of laughter.

“Y’know what ya did!! Naru-chaaaan,” Mika whines. He’s kicking his feet weakly under the chair, swinging happily, feeling the flowers in his chest loosen at Arashi’s display of affection. “Kiss me again? Pleeease?”

“Of course, darling~” Arashi singsongs, prying Mika off her chest and then kissing his forehead with a somewhat melodramatic smack. Mika breaks into another fit of giggles. _He’s just so cute,_ Arashi thinks, and indulges herself a little more, peppering Mika’s forehead with kisses, letting them land on his eyebrows and hairline and the bridge of his nose.

Mika just keeps giggling, blushing as Arashi showers his face with little affectionate pecks, and then one lands on his eyelid and suddenly he feels the breath knocked out of him, the sudden tightening of his chest he can’t attribute to the flowers. “Naru-chan,” he tries, gently pushing her back, and the hesitant, unsure expression on his face causes Arashi to pause.

“Are you alright?” Arashi takes Mika’s chin in her hand. “Oh, was it the eyes…?”

“Y… Yeah.” Mika looks down, and the blush only deepens. “Y’know how I’m super ashamed of my eyes… Kissin’ them like that is kinda…”

“You didn’t like it?”

“N-No, I…” Mika swallows some sort of petal before it can force itself out; it tastes tangy under his tongue, somehow a nice flavor, but his stomach churns. “I did. ’S just, it’s really… close… I get self-conscious, so, doin’ somethin’ like that is…”

“Mika-chan.”

“Mm?”

“Can I kiss you? On the lips?”

 _Whoa, that’s unexpected!_ Mika’s mouth opens, then closes, soundlessly stammering, because this is his _first kiss,_ and ideally he wanted it to be with Shu— but that’s not happening any time soon, and Arashi is his best friend, and Mika really likes her, plus she’s super cute and pretty, so what is there to lose? “Uh… yeah. Yeah, y’can.”

 

And then Arashi is kissing him.

Mika’s first thought is, _oh, her lips are soft._  His second thought comes right after, following quite naturally: _this isn’t so bad at all._ Arashi’s hands twine into the back of his hair, and Mika can’t really help it when he clutches at her jacket, and the nervous squeezing shut of his eyes melts into a very gentle, very _comfortable_ lidding, as if they just fall shut. He didn’t think his first kiss would be so _relaxing,_ so easy; there’s none of the twisting anxiety in his chest, nothing like the tension and excitement and nerves he imagined. It’s just Arashi, and yeah, she’s almost intimidatingly pretty and sometimes Mika wonders why she’d even want to be his friend at all, let alone _kiss him,_  but with his eyes closed he can’t get scared of how beautiful she is, just feels their lips pressing together, searching. _Just Naru-chan,_ he thinks, and the vines constricting Mika’s lungs loosen so nicely that he can actually take in a breath through his nose and _feel it._

Arashi’s lips crack open to take Mika’s bottom lip between them, gently pulling, keeping the kiss from getting too heavy— she doesn’t want to freak Mika out too much, even if she _does_ want to make out with him for real— but Mika is braver than she expected, a flick of his tongue against her upper lip, almost teasing. She hums quietly against his mouth, letting out a huff of laughter from her nose, then pulls him closer, opening up a little more to let Mika explore.

It’s just little brushes of his tongue over the inside of her lips, and Mika shies a little, afraid of the sudden openness, so Arashi lets it go, just tightens her hands in his hair as she ( _gently, gently!_ ) nips at the softness of Mika’s bottom lip, and Mika mouths over her Cupid’s bow before he huffs out a little giggle and pulls away.

Arashi’s got the sweetest smile on her face, she’s blushing a little, and Mika feels like if he tried to hold himself back he’d end up straining his face muscles, so he just grins with everything he has, still a little giddy and feeling like he’s walking on air.

“Mika-chaaan,” Arashi giggles, poking his nose. “Don’t tell me that was your first kiss? You’re a natural, you know~”

“It was, yeah,” Mika says bashfully, scratches at the back of his neck. “Was I really that good? I jus’ kinda go on instinct, ’n stuff, so…”

“Still, for a first-timer, you’re better than a lot of the _other_ guys I’ve kissed.” Arashi narrows her eyes, looks to the side as if calling someone out. There’s no one there, but Mika can only imagine. He laughs a little, and something in him tells him he should be jealous that Arashi makes out with a lot of people besides him, but that’s… not how it feels. It’s just Arashi, after all, and he doesn’t really want to keep her all to himself— there’s no need, no possessiveness, just comfort and warmth.

“I bet. Guys are gross. What if they like, licked your mouth or somethin’. Like a dog.”

“Eeewww,” Arashi shrieks, holding her hand to her mouth, fake-shocked. “Guys that kiss like dogs are the absolute _worst._ ”

Mika sidles up, places his head in his hands, looking up at Arashi with a curious smile. “Who was it? I wanna know, Naru-chan, gimme the best gossip you got~”

“Ooh, have I got a story to tell you!” Arashi claps her hands, settles herself into her chair, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Like, some guy at my modeling agency took me out on a date once, and after he was nice enough to drive me home. When we were outside my apartment, I was gonna tell him good night, but then he leaned in and kissed me. I was like, oh boy, he’s one of those guys. You know, the kind that gets super up close and personal on the first date? So I kissed him back, and then he virtually _licked my whole mouth._ ”

Mika doubles over in his chair, exploding in a fit of laughter, and he doesn’t quite expect the flowers— little bells from a lily-of-the-valley, sweetly scented, and, he knows, poisonous. He doesn’t let them remain in his mouth at all, lets them spill onto the floor. They don’t faze him now, though, and instead he just smiles at them, a vague understanding. Arashi places her hand on Mika’s shoulder.

“Eat your parfait,” she just says, looking at him sweetly, a little bit pityingly, but at least she’s not making him eat the curry first.

“Only if ya eat the rest of it when I get too full ’n can’t finish it.”

“Deal—”

“With the same spoon.”

Arashi grins.

“Normally I would, but you basically just coughed up poisonous flowers, you know? So I’ll pass for now on indirect kisses.” She winks. “I can just give you a real one after.”

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later, Mika finally succeeds in getting Shu to come with him to school.

It's early, and all of Shu's movements as he wakes up are languid and pained, groaning quietly. Mika had been up before him, already dressed and currently shuffling around downstairs, and so it's a little easier for Shu to rouse himself without Mika clinging to him like a little koala.

He shifts, sits up weakly in bed, and stares at the glittering chandelier, how it casts specks of dawn across the room like shards of a shattered crystal. His eyes feel tired, lightless, but he stands anyway, feeling the surge of dizziness at being upright after so long. A thought hits him, despite his frantic attempts to dispel it: _this is all Tenshouin's fault._

Placing his hand on the bedside table for stability, Shu closes his eyes, and then the pain overtakes him, a piercing tightness in his whole body as he spasms and coughs, doubling over onto the carpet. His knees collide with the floor, and Shu curls into himself, clutching at his head as the fragrant bite of lilies coats his tongue. They're orange this time, all over the floor, covering his lap, but that's not the problem-- the problem is the blood that comes with it, soaking into his pants and staining the carpet and soiling _everything._

Mika rushes into the room, dropping everything to kneel at Shu's side, rubbing his back as Shu continues to cough, his body wracked with spasms and jerks as more blood runs from the corners of his mouth. The orange-red blurs over the carpet, and Shu's eyes unfocus, his head pounds with fear and hate hate _hate._

"Oshi-san," Mika whimpers, "Oshi-san," but he doesn't stop his hand on Shu's back, drawing the last of the flowers from his chest, leaning against his side weakly. Shu's head slumps, once he's done, blood drawing a desperate line down his chin, dripping tears and crimson onto the cream-colored carpet. "Oshi-san, y'don't have to come to school with me, not if yer this sick, just sleep more--"

"No," Shu breathes, hoarse and pained, "no, I have to come. I _have_ to. Take me with you, Kagehira, _please_."

He staggers, as Mika helps to pull him to his feet, leaning into his thin shoulder. Mika wraps his arms around Shu's neck, pulls him close, not even caring if the blood on Shu's lips stains his jacket, he needs to be here now, needs to be stronger. "Okay," he whispers, "okay, alright, but ya have to put on your clothes, yeah?"

Shu nods, and Mika's hands bunch on the waist of Shu's nightgown, pull it up above his head when Shu raises his arms. It's only then, seeing Shu's bare chest, the lines of his shoulders, the pale, vulnerable surface of his skin, that Mika realizes just how weak his Oshi-san has become. He looks scrawny, jutting, his ribcage plainly visible, as if his body is nothing but a thin layer of skin stretched over the frame of his bare bones. His face is gaunt and hollow, none of the softness Mika loves so much, the tone of his muscle and the sweet curve of his jawline all gone.

And his breathing is much more beleaguered, audibly painful. Mika can feel it rasping as he presses a hand to Shu's chest. His eyes well with tears at the sight of his savior, his very reason for existing, living and breathing in such agony. He blinks them back, looking down, his hand still resting over Shu's weakened heartbeat.

He doesn't deserve this. Shu is so vulnerable, so plainly visible as the broken boy he's always been, and Mika feels stuttering, helpless in his presence. But Shu only peers down at him, his eyes lightless yet obviously concerned, as if he doesn't have himself to worry about.

"Kagehira," comes Shu's rattled voice, hesitant and hitching. Mika feels the vibration in his fingertips. It's a quiet, faint reassurance, if anything: _He's alive. He's alive. For now we're alive._

"Y... Yeah. Oshi-san, if y'really wanna go... let's get you dressed."

 

They part at the entrance to Shu's classroom, Mika's face creased with sorrow and worry-- Shu shares a class with Tenshouin Eichi, the source of all their pain, and he almost wants to skip his own class to sit in front of Shu and defend him from anything Eichi tries. Even with Mademoiselle as the shield between him and the world, Shu is helpless now, in the arena with the same emperor that maimed him, and Mika can't protect him like this.

Hesitantly, Mika takes Shu's free hand in his. Shu's fingers are cold.

"You tell me if he says anything, I'll come up 'n beat his ass," Mika growls, a little more aggressive than he meant it to come out, but if he can't do this for Shu now, then when? "Won't let him hurt you. 'N if ya start coughing, get to the infirmary, yeah? Sagami-sensei gets it, pretty sure he's seen it before."

Shu sighs. He feels the sharpness at the tip of his tongue-- _not necessary, don't cause trouble for me, as if a dimwit like you would know anything, you can't protect me now so just leave me alone--_ but it won't come, and only flowers fill his throat, that he desperately swallows down before they can spill over.

"Fine," is all Shu can say in response, but he doesn't let go of Mika's hands until Mika does so himself. Before he can stop it, Mademoiselle's voice rises high and sweet from his throat. "Take care of yourself too, Mika-chan! Shu-kun couldn't bear it if you got hurt too."

"Will do, Mado-nee," Mika smiles, petting the doll's curls with a gentle finger. "See you, Oshi-san."

 

* * *

 

The worry plagues him throughout the entire day, and Mika is constantly coughing up various flowers, trying and failing not to interrupt classes with his loud, hacking heaves. Ritsu even rouses from his slumber to shoot him a glare, which quickly turns into a look of pity when he notices the pansies and zinnias scattered over Mika's lap. Mika avoids the piercing eye contact, keeps his head down, turning into the sleeve of his jacket whenever he needs to stifle another cough.

He's decided he can't possibly keep this secret anymore. The flowers clear out easier the earlier Mika expels them, and by continuing to let them cycle through his lungs and out his mouth, he finds that breathing throughout the day becomes a little easier. Thinking about Shu, and how he's probably keeping them all behind his teeth, swallowing the blooms as soon as they rise, Mika wonders if that's why Shu looks so much worse than he does.

There's a bit of blood with the zinnias, but it's not much, and Mika finds he's a little more desensitized to it the more he sees. Even if it means he's going downhill, it reminds him that he's still human, that he still has blood in his veins. But as the day goes on, his throat gets worse and worse, and the constricting feeling in his ribcage only becomes stronger.

By fifth period, Mika can't breathe.

His head feels light, his body heavy, and the dizziness sets in the moment he glances up from the desk to look at the blackboard. He can't keep himself upright anymore, and he's choking, whimpering quietly at the back of the class, until he finally gives up and falls out of his seat, unconscious before he hits the ground.

 

His eyes crack open to the hum of fluorescent lights above him. The late-afternoon glare of the sun hits hard, and Mika groans like a dying animal before weakly throwing a hand over his eyes and taking a shaky breath in.

When he really notices where he is, he lets out a choked sigh. Somebody must have carried him here, because he definitely remembers passing out in class, and not walking to the infirmary. The blankets around him feel scratchy and wrong on his legs, and he kicks weakly, trying to poke his foot out.

The curtain surrounding his bed slides back, and Sagami-sensei looks in on him, sighing in relief when he sees that Mika is awake.

"Ah, Kagehira-kun. Narukami brought you here, if you're wondering." _Knew it,_ Mika thinks sadly. If anyone would have carried him all the way up here, it would be Arashi. "I'm sending you home after this, doctor's orders. You need to take better care of your health."

Mika groans. _So much for Oshi-san coming back to school today,_ he thinks. If he can't stay, Shu can't either; it's just the way it goes, and Mika hates that his condition had to flare up so badly that it ruined Shu's chance at making a comeback. _It's all my fault. Sorry, Oshi-san._

"Speaking of which, I think your unit leader's in here too," Sagami-sensei comments offhandedly. "I have a meeting in a few minutes, so another nurse is gonna be on duty... I'll tell her to send you home once you get up."

"Oshi-san's here too?" Mika almost sits straight up in bed, but a little whimper exits his mouth when his stomach cramps badly and he finds himself unable to get up. "Is he okay? When'd he get here, is he breathin' okay, y'gotta take care of him first--"

"Hey, slow down," Sagami-sensei says, placing a hand on Mika's head. "Slow down. He's alive, but he's in bad condition. He got here way before you, Kiryu-kun from 3-B found him collapsed in the bathroom in second period and carried him up." He sighs, rubbing at his eyes with his other hand. "You two really are a mess. Forgive me for giving unwanted advice, but you both need to get it removed before it gets any worse-- I can refer you to someone, if you'd like?"

Mika's expression goes dark. He glares at Sagami-sensei, as hard as he possibly can, grimacing and clenching his teeth behind his lips to avoid making any impulsive comments. Thankfully, the nurse seems to get the message, and he shrinks beneath Mika's stare, apologetically looking away.

"I get it, I get it. It's personal, right? I won't push," he shrugs. And then, after a pause, he adds, "But do know that nothing is worth losing your life for, especially if you have the option to remove it."

Mika only glares harder, and this time he can't stop himself from snapping. "What the hell d' _you_ know about anythin'?!" he growls, baring his teeth now like a cat about to strike out with its claws. "You don' know what it's _like_ , losin' everything y'ever had, still tryin' to hold on to the only stuff y'kept your hands on, abandoned 'n... 'n _betrayed,_  'n _sufferin_ ', there ain't no way y'could possibly know!" Then he claps his hand over his mouth, knowing he's said entirely too much, knowing Shu's in the room too and he'll probably get scolded for talking about it, or worse, not even scolded at all, just stared at blankly and accusingly, nothing but silence from Shu's pale lips--

"Be quiet, Kagehira."

The familiar, rasping voice comes from across the room, so quiet and weak he barely notices at first. There's no anger in Shu's words, no aggression or sharpness in his voice, just a defeated hollowness. Mika feels gutted, rendered speechless, and he finally breaks into a shaking, unsure sob.

Sagami-sensei's eyes go wide, and this time he actually bows. "I'm sorry," he apologizes, shuts the curtain hastily, and Mika is again cut off, alone and not alone, staring at the buzzing lights.

He hears Sagami-sensei leave, the door rattle shut behind him, and slowly, careful not to aggravate the pain again, sits up in bed and sets his feet on the linoleum floor. Trying to balance himself, he stands, opens the curtain to pad over across the room to Shu's bedside. Mademoiselle is sitting on the windowsill, blonde hair almost reddish in the sleepy light. Shu doesn't move, doesn't respond, not until Mika kneels at the side of his bed, resting his head in his arms.

"Kagehira. What are you doing? Go back and get your rest. I'll take you home when I'm ready."

"Oshi-san," Mika hesitates, but there's something gnawing relentlessly at him, something he wants desperately to do for Shu, for himself. He wonders if it's selfish, but Shu feels cold to the touch when Mika not-so-accidentally brushes against his arm laying flat at his side. "Don't y'think it's somehow... kinda wrong that we're sleepin' in separate beds?"

"I think nothing of the sort," Shu responds defeatedly, but he moves over anyway, eyes inviting Mika in, to share his warmth, to melt his frozen body. He fixes Mika with an apologetic, honest gaze, narrow in the bright yellow light, but still open enough for Mika to understand. Slowly, Mika lifts the flimsy covers, climbs in next to Shu, pressing his body up against Shu's rigid, barely-rising side.

There's a stillness, a quietude here, as Mika nestles against Shu's cold body, wrapping his limbs around him, trying desperately to keep him warm. Shu doesn't try to push him off-- with Mika nuzzled up like this, his breathing comparatively steady and solid, something soothes in him that he barely recognizes anymore.

Again, Shu only feels the words come to him while Mika sleeps. _I love you,_  he says, soundlessly mouthing it into the pillow as Mika's arms tighten around his waist, _I love you. You are all I have. More than anything in the world, I..._

Shu never finishes the sentence. He swallows down the words as he would the flowers, and lets the steady rhythm of Mika's breath lull him to sleep.

 


	4. night of the funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flower blooms, and the night of its wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry everyone
> 
> (for both the wait and the occurrences of this chapter)
> 
> it's been a pretty open secret on my twitter what happens in this chapter, but i hope it still has the same impact. also i know the wait was unusually long, but bear with me, it's winter and there's school and i have Depression.
> 
> THANK YOU FOR STICKING WITH ME I PROMISE THIS FIC WON'T BE ABANDONED

Before Shu knows it, it is winter.

Autumn has passed in seemingly no time, like weaving in and out of a dream, how a minute can become an hour in between states of consciousness. It gets dark out early now, a world abandoned by the sun. He shrugs Mika’s arm off from around his waist, stands up shakily from his bed, pulls back the lace curtain— only the last sliver of light down the hill and above the sea is visible, a tired echo.

Mika stirs, groaning, shifting up into a sitting position and then hanging his legs off the bed. He doesn’t say anything. Just lets Shu watch. Even in the cutting silhouette of his back, Mika can see— he is in pain, he has been missing. He can imagine the grimace Shu is probably wearing right now, so perfectly in his mind. He’s worn it many times before, and Mika knows better than anyone.

“Kagehira.”

“Huh?” Mika jerks up, thoughts broken by Shu’s thin, plaintive voice.

“You haven’t talked to Nito, have you.”

It’s not really a question. But Mika answers nonetheless.

“No way, Oshi-san. I’m mad at him, y’know.” He can’t help the way his fists clench, the way he soundlessly gestures at stomping his foot, indignation welling up inside him— he hopes Shu doesn’t notice.

Thankfully, Shu doesn’t seem to. “Why is that,” he asks, the question dropping off into the vague fog of intent.

“‘Cause he _abandoned_ us! He’s a traitor, Oshi-san, ’n y’were sufferin’ so bad and he jus’ _left!_ ” This time, Mika really _does_ stomp his foot, abruptly shooting up to a standing position, and Shu turns around. Quickly, he shrinks back into himself, as if making himself as small as possible would take back the violent gesture, but Shu’s eyes, still lightless, still slow-blinking, just stare.

And before Mika can stop it, he starts crying.

The tears spill over his bottom eyelids, painting his cheeks with salt, and he sniffles and wipes at his face with the long sleeves of his sleep shirt. Just seeing Shu, like _this,_ not even angry just _blank,_ still after three months broken and empty, it makes him red with rage and tears and a hot frustration welling up inside him.

“Why d’ya think I’m so mad at him! Y’think I’m happy he left? That I should…” And the realization comes to him, rising delicately, hitting just as hard. “That I should… leave ya too.”

Shu says nothing, but it’s a slow nod, not even fighting. No argument.

“I can’t. You _know_ that.” Mika bites down on his lip, desperately trying to keep a sob from slipping out of his mouth.

“You can, and you should.” Shu looks down at him, almost _insisting,_ and Mika sees— he’s not just saying this, not with the way his voice trembles, no, he _means_ it. Shu has always had sharp words for him, telling him he’s a nuisance, a misfit, doesn’t line up perfectly with his vision, unsuited for his Valkyrie— but Mika can tell it’s not another one of Shu’s attempts to convince him he doesn’t care. This is real. This is about _Mika,_ about _his_ life, about _options._ And Shu genuinely seems to think that Mika is better off leaving Valkyrie. _Leaving him._

“I ain’t leavin’ you,” Mika shouts, voice suddenly spiking into a plea, a new desperation coloring his manner. “I don’t _want_ to—”

“Valkyrie,” Shu says, as if describing a proven fact, as if commenting on the weather, “is long dead. You would do well to move on.”

Mika hates it. His tears suddenly feel hot, eyes narrow, body stone-firm as his will. “No,” he growls, through clenched teeth. Making sure Shu is looking at him, making sure Shu is _seeing,_ Mika opens his chest and wrenches out his feelings-- wrenches out the zinnias in his throat, letting one fiery bloom fall from his lips.

_This is why I’m here. This is why I’m still living._

“Valkyrie ain’t dead. As long as I’m here, with you, Oshi-san, Valkyrie’s alive. And I ain’t lettin’ it die.”

Shu lets his gaze linger on Mika’s determination for as long as he can, until he lifts his head and looks out the window once more. There is no more light in the sky, just the artificial glow of streetlamps and lanterns, a vulgar imitation. And so in his eyes.

Mika lifts up a prayer.

 _How could anyone do this? How could anyone do this to Oshi-san?_ But his questions reach no one, his plea goes unanswered.

The gods have abandoned them.

 

* * *

 

She was supposed to be a _channel_.

Mademoiselle sits, smiling blankly, on the velvet cushion Shu keeps by the windowsill. Shu looks at her, studying, running a finger around the edge of her golden curls. Another day that he’s had to stay home, that he’s made Mika go to school even still, nearly having to push him out the door to make sure he got to his classes— he supposes it’s better this way, because Shu has needed to have this conversation for a very long time.

The voice comes high and soft from his own throat. “Shu-kun, you look awfully troubled.”

“And why do you think that is?” he responds, looking at Mademoiselle like the words came from the doll and not his own mouth. It isn’t really his, anymore— sometimes she just speaks, even if he’s not holding her, as long as she’s in the same room she is awake and alert. “You keep saying shameful things that I would never even think, let alone express.”

“Do you think being kind to Mika-chan is shameful, Shu-kun?”

He sighs.

“I’ve told you. I cannot let myself become attached. He needs to leave me, and I must push him away. You are making this _difficult_ for me.”

“We both know that’s not really how you feel,” Mademoiselle giggles, so frustratingly proud of her knowledge, and so _accurate_ that Shu grits his teeth. “I know your true feelings, Shu-kun. You’re a kind, gentle person. Why do you keep denying Mika-chan your love?”

“Even if I do love him,” Shu finally admits, with a defeated breath, “he does not deserve—” His voice shifts in the middle of a sentence, he loses control of his lips, and Mademoiselle finishes for him, correcting him, gently.

“‘I don’t deserve him.’ Isn’t that what you were about to say?”

“You troublesome doll. You weren’t supposed to be—”

A jump, a catch of the cords, almost as if he’s a pubescent boy, voice cracking as it slowly begins to fall.

“My own person. I know, Shu-kun, I know.”

“You were supposed to be like her.”

They both stop talking. Shu’s throat is starting to hurt from Mademoiselle using his falsetto, and Mademoiselle herself seems a little taken aback, as if she has forgotten until now who she was originally made to be.

“Don’t you think I still am?” She giggles, a little sadly. “I was the only one who understood you, Shu-kun. When no one else would come to your aid, I was your comfort. If I were still alive as I was, I would do the very same thing I am doing for you now.”

Mademoiselle breathes out for Shu, whose breath has become staggered.

“Mika-chan… he’s a good boy. He deserves your love. And you deserve his, Shu-kun. No matter how much you deny it, I know. I know you best, after all.”

Shu stares into the glass eyes. A slam of the door downstairs makes the whole house reverberate— it’s an old structure, this is normal— and Mademoiselle’s left eyelid falls closed with the movement, an almost mocking, understanding wink.

“Oshi-san?”

Mika’s curious call from downstairs— Shu has to restrain his own heart.

“ _Don’t_ cause trouble,” he tells Mademoiselle, picking her up and heading downstairs to meet Mika halfway.

 

* * *

 

“Oshi-san~” Mika looks a little excited when he meets Shu at the bottom of the stairs. Shu doesn’t think he cares to know exactly why, until he meets Mika’s glowing eyes and has to look away.

“What, failure.” Shu walks past him into the kitchen, his gait a little slow, as if dreading the destination. He keeps Mademoiselle in one hand as he tries to open the refrigerator with the other, and immediately she takes over, spiking his voice into a gentle falsetto that is, quite honestly, starting to hurt.

“Ah, Mika-chan! Shu-kun is glad you’re home.”

It’s not like Mika is ever really fazed at Shu’s sharp tongue, but the assurance from Mademoiselle is enough to make his heart light, his eyes sparkle. “Thank ya kindly, Mado-nee,” he grins, but the smile is really just aimed at Shu, and it’s so bright Shu can’t look directly at it— his eyes are used to the darkness by now, he can’t stand the sun, the way Mika smiles up at him like he’s still _worth_ something.

“What a nuisance,” Shu sighs, finally gets the fridge open. Mika peers under him at the assortment of food, nothing that doesn’t require preparation, and Shu looks a bit discouraged. Ugh, he hasn’t eaten all _day,_ and Mademoiselle has been bugging him since he woke up to at least get _something_ in his stomach. But he doesn’t have the energy to cook, he doesn’t have the energy to do _anything,_ and his thought process spirals in on itself in a recursive loop of self-hate.

“Oshi-san, have y’eaten today? I can help if ya need to make somethin’… Yer tired, ain’t ya?”

And then Mika leans a little into Shu’s back.

The sudden touch, the _trust_ that Mika puts in him, startles Shu down to his bones, and he feels petals crawl up his throat before he abruptly whips around, hitting his head _hard_ on the refrigerator door, and he doesn’t even have time to cry out in pain before the pansies spill from his mouth.

Mika yelps, and Shu falls to his knees, holding his head. There are tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, and the rattling of his skull is dimming his thoughts; Mika crouches next to him, his hand resting unsure on Shu’s head, as if he wants to touch, to soothe, but can’t tell if Shu would let him. Shu almost pushes into the touch, into Mika’s kind, steady hand.

Mademoiselle is safe, a pansy petal stuck in her hair, and Shu brushes it off weakly before the dizziness gets to him and he collapses fully, a broken doll on the kitchen floor. He can feel Mika’s hands under his head, lifting him into something warm and soft— _probably in his lap,_ Shu thinks, but it’s so dim he can’t seem to sort out the emotions that would usually come with that realization. Mika just holds him, just keeps his head elevated and cushioned, and his hand is shaking a little bit when Shu feels it stroke through his hair.

“Oshi-san, I got ya,” Mika says, his voice too quiet to feel confident, to feel stable. “Don’ worry now, I’m here…”

It hurts so _much,_ Shu doesn’t remember the last time he hit his head this badly— it was such a sudden movement, so quick and strong that he feels like it could have made a dent. The pain makes him want to clutch his head, to curl up in a ball, to protect himself from anything else that could hurt him. He can still feel the thin petals of the pansies clinging to the inside of his throat, and he curses the disease again, curses the flowers that fall from his lips instead of words, curses the way they itch and hurt and spill.

As if getting on his feet after— after that _night_ — wasn’t hard enough, as if the emotional trauma and toll wasn’t heavy enough for him, these flowers growing inside his body are dragging him down, and Shu hates it.

He tries another breath, shaking and bottlenecked, not enough air, before he gives up and passes out in Mika’s lap.

 

* * *

 

 

Mika keeps his right hand on Shu’s head, tries to reach up to the freezer handle for some ice without having to stand up and let go of Shu, and after flailing and grabbing at the ice drawer and spilling a couple cubes on the wooden floor, he manages to get a chunk of them, pressing them with quickly numbing fingers to the swelling on Shu’s head. They’re cold, and melting over his fingers, soaking Shu’s hair into a deeper pink, dripping from the feathered bangs and from his fingertips.

He notices that Shu isn’t quite breathing right, that the heaving of his chest is irregular and thin, and Mika turns Shu over onto his back— that just makes it worse, Shu’s chest spasms, like he’s choking, like his body is trying to expel something but can’t gather the consciousness to do so. Urgently, Mika reaches down, opens Shu’s lips, and notices whole blooms of pansies clogging the back of his mouth, just around his throat. Shu’s body is wincing, spasming, but his eyes are still closed, he’s not waking up, and Mika can’t help the worry as he immediately reaches into Shu’s mouth to remove the bloom covering his palate.

Shu gags, but he doesn’t wake, and Mika winces, trying to make sure he doesn’t accidentally make him throw up, pinching the wet pansy between his thumb and index finger and pulls it past his open lips. There’s another one at the back of his tongue, and Mika inches his finger down reluctantly, pulling it up little by little. Shu doesn’t respond this time, so it’s okay, and once Mika has those out, Shu’s breathing begins to even out, sound a little less like whistling and a little more like actual inhaling.

He rolls Shu back onto his side, where he knows Shu is comfortable, and strokes through his hair, a little wet and a little cold but still perfect and soft and almost ethereal. Mika wants to hold onto him, wants to keep him on this cursed earth— Shu’s hair feels like gossamer and his body is almost weightless in Mika’s lap and he looks fey and made of light, like he could disappear at any moment. Mika’s fingers, wet with ice water and slick with saliva, are touching something that could just maybe, just possibly be an illusion.

He’s not strong enough to pick Shu up, even with how fragile he is, even with how much weight he’s lost, so Mika just sits against the fridge, and silently, patiently, waits for his Oshi-san to wake up.

At least, until something in Shu’s pocket starts buzzing.

It startles Mika out of his reverie, however brief, and Shu isn't... well, _around_ , to take the call, so he really should just leave it, but he can't help it, he's _curious_. He pulls the phone delicately out of Shu's jacket, sees the name on the screen-- _oh_. Kuro? Kiryu-senpai? Ryuu-kun-san? Mika's not even sure how he's supposed to address Shu's childhood friend, but that certainly is a convenient name to see on the screen in this situation. Steeling himself, he picks up.

"I-Itsuki residence?" Mika's voice wavers, just a little. Kuro is intimidating, one of those big, strong men with lots of muscle that could probably crush his head in one hand, the kind of men Mika is terrified of. But Kuro's low voice is soft over the phone, almost calming, and Mika knows there's a reason Shu cares for him so much, that Shu feels safe around him.

"Ah, Kagehira-kun? Is that you?"

"Y-Yeah. Hey, Kiryu-senpai. Oshi-san's, uh... not here right now. Y'wanna leave him a message 'n I can pass it to him when he wakes up?"

"He's asleep?" Kuro's voice is fraught with worry. Mika debates telling a convenient lie, but his legs are starting to fall asleep (it must be true that people get way heavier when they're unconscious) and Mika at least needs to get Shu to a bed, but there's no way he can lift him, and Kuro seems experienced at lifting Shu, to put it one way.

"He, uh... He hit his head real hard and passed out. I ain't strong enough to carry him to a bed or anythin', so uh, if ya got business, maybe y'could come over and help 'n we could talk in person?"

The phone is silent for a second. Then a sigh. "Ah, damn. I should've known he'd do something like that. I can come over to move him, yeah, and there's also something I wanna ask Valkyrie about, not just Itsuki..."

 _Stuff for Valkyrie?_ Mika's eyes narrow a bit. If it means they can get back on stage, he'd love to, but... "About Valkyrie? Well, Oshi-san's in charge, so I dunno if he'd let me make any decisions for him..."

"You're just as much Valkyrie as he is. If anything, we can wait for him to wake up." Kuro seems final on this. Mika sighs a bit, but he can't help the warm hope that bubbles up in his chest, that he can perform with Shu again, that Valkyrie can stand on stage again, even if it's just the two of them.

"Ah, yeah... got it."

"Then I'll be on my way. See you in ten or so." Kuro's voice is stable, grounding, and Mika thinks he understands now, why Shu trusts in him so deeply. "Ah, and Kagehira-kun... thanks."

 

* * *

 

The doorbell always startles Mika a bit too much for his own good. When Kuro rings, Mika jolts, and Shu's head almost falls out of his lap and hits the wooden floor. Gently, he scoots away, knowing he's going to have to get the door, and cradles Shu's head in his hands as he lays it down. Once he stands up, he remembers Mademoiselle, lying (safe, unbroken) on the kitchen floor. _He wouldn't mind if I picked her up jus' to keep her safe 'n clean, right?_ He cradles the fragile doll in his hands, stands her up on the kitchen counter, keeping her dress unsoiled, and then walks out of the open floor kitchen across the living room.

He opens the door, and Kuro's stature catches him off guard almost immediately, not only tall like Shu but strong and bulky, the opposite of delicate. But Mika knows Kuro is trustworthy, if only from what Shu says about him-- he can't be a bad person if Oshi-san calls him by a nickname, he rationalizes.

"Yo, Kagehira-kun. Wanna show me where Itsuki went?"

Mika nods, letting Kuro in and closing the door behind him, rattling the stained glass window above it. Kuro takes off his shoes in the entryway, pushes them into a neat arrangement by the coat rack. "He's over here in the kitchen. Hit his head real bad on the fridge door..."

"How'd he do that?"

Mika gulps. He doesn't want to tell Kuro about the flowers, and that's really the only excuse that would justify such a strong impact. "Turned around real fast," he manages, before they walk around the kitchen island and see Shu, still just how Mika left him, a collapsed doll. Mademoiselle is standing up on the granite island counter, safe and sound, just where Mika left her. The pansies he coughed up are still scattered across the floor, and Mika panics, spinning quick and waving his hands. "D-Don' come any closer, I gotta clean up some stuffs, hold on--"

"Aw, no. This again?" Kuro looks a little frazzled, a little exhausted. Mika looks up, startled.

"Nnah? Kiryu-senpai, ya know about the--"

"Yeah," Kuro sighs. "Go ahead and clean those up, I won't come near. I'd help you and all if I could, but you can never be too careful with those, huh?"

Mika shrugs, squatting to pick up the delicate yellow and purple petals. "Guess not. Don' worry, I got it." He gathers the equivalent of probably ten blooms in his hands, mostly dry now from being exposed, and dumps them in the garbage can. Then washes his hands, just in case. "Yeah, I... if y'could take him up to our room 'n get him in bed for me, that'd be super."

" _Our_ room?" Kuro comments amusedly. Mika flushes up to the tips of his ears.

"N-Not like that, I have my own room y'know, I jus' stay in Oshi-san's all the time 'cause he needs me a lot..."

"I'm kidding," Kuro acquiesces, but Mika still catches the hint of a teasing smile playing on the corner of his lips. _Jeez,_ he thinks. _Am I really that obvious?_

Mika picks up Mademoiselle first while Kuro kneels, scooping Shu into his arms like a baby, his head lolling back a bit until Mika slides a hand under it for support. They walk out of the kitchen space and up the stairs, Mika following behind a bit, free arm still outstretched to keep Shu's head from falling and straining his neck.

With his other hand, he points to the door at the left end of the hallway. "'S that one." Kuro nods, and Mika lets go of Shu's head and squeezes around him quickly to open the door for them, Kuro turning sideways to get Shu's long, lanky form through the doorway.

The bed is unmade, and the room is unlit, and even though the blinds are open there's really no light coming in that spreads, just the glow of streetlamps casting window-shaped shadows across the rug. Mika pulls back the covers a bit, allows Kuro to set Shu down on his side of the bed, and pulls them up again over him once Shu's all settled in. He places Mademoiselle on her special red cushion, on the built-in seat below the bay window.

"Thank ya kindly," Mika grins. "I got some candy, if ya want it? 'S the least I can do." He rummages through his pockets, finding a peppermint puff, a drop with a strawberry-design wrapper, and a saltwater taffy. Kuro's smile is warm and a little embarrassed, but he picks the strawberry candy, unwrapping it and popping it in his mouth.

"Ah, thanks." Kuro puts a warm, large hand on Mika's shoulder. "You're always taking care of Itsuki for me, aren'tcha?"

"I..." Mika looks down with a bashful smile, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oshi-san's in bad shape, an' he lost almost everythin' he loved. I ain't gonna be one of them."

The implication there, that Mika realizes far too late, doesn't go over Kuro's head. "He talks fondly of you, you know. Course, he always tries at covering it up, but that's just the way he is. I can’t understand him anymore, so I can’t be that person for him, but I’m…” Mika can hear Kuro swallow, and then the grateful breath that comes before a smile. "I'm glad he has you. Keep taking good care of him, yeah?"

The warm spark in Mika's chest radiates out into every limb, a kind yellow glow spreading in him, lighting up his face. _Oshi-san talks fondly of me? He says nice things about me when I'm not around?_ The idea is a little dizzying, and it's a beautifully aching thrill he feels when the small flicker of a thought comes through his mind-- _what if he really does love me?_ \-- but then Mika puts it out, squashes the stray thought between his fingers. _Just this is enough for now._ He looks up at Kuro, standing by the bed, less looming darkly over them and more a wall, a fortress, protecting them from any harm. He can't stop the smile-- the radiant, face-hurting, toothy smile he gives when he's truly, truly happy. The one Shu scolds him halfheartedly for, the one Mika barely ever smiles anymore, not since the night Shu broke.

"I- I will! Kiryu-senpai! I'm always gonna be by Oshi-san's side! No matter what!" Tears bead at his eyes, burning a bit, uncomfortable and out of place, but Mika's still smiling when he starts crying, still smiling until he's not, until he tastes the salt of his own tears on his lips and notices how fast they're coming down his face. And once he notices, he can't hold himself up anymore, feeling the drip of tears off his chin, and slowly, gradually, he breaks into quiet weeping and then into sobs. "I'm gonna... I'm gonna take care of him. No matter what."

_No matter what._

That's a sentence that has taken on a heavier meaning since the fall, since Shu had gotten worse. Mika's noticed, of course-- he's seen the way Shu looks at the kitchen knives while he's cooking, like they're gifts from the gods and all he has to do is embrace them. The way Shu stares at a bottle of painkillers or Mika's anxiety medication with a longing usually only reserved for new fabrics, or croissants, _or Nazuna-nii_ , he thinks, a little bitterly. And Shu swallows flowers, clogging up his system instead of letting them pass his lips, the same way he treats his words, and sometimes Mika can see, through the pain in Shu's eyes, a certain reassured resignation whenever he coughs up heavy blooms.

Mika has to be prepared for anything.

Kuro's hand removes itself from Mika's shoulder, and Mika almost jolts at the sudden removal of something so warm and comforting-- and then he's stroking Mika's hair, pulling him close into his chest, and Mika sags down into Kuro's strong, solid shoulder, tries in vain to stop the tears. He's vaguely aware that he's being a huge mess, and that he's probably getting snot all over Kuro's shirt, and it's a little disgraceful and a lot embarrassing, but for now. For now, Mika needs this.

"I've never been one to question Itsuki's decisions and all, but..." Kuro's voice vibrates, resounds in Mika's ear where it's pressed to his chest. "I have no idea how the flowers could be for anyone but you."

Mika sobs, wrapping his arms around Kuro's neck and clinging, and he thinks there might be a chance. Even if only the slightest bit, even if it'll kill the both of them first, there might be a hope there, and that's almost scarier than there being none at all.

 

Once Mika has calmed down enough, Kuro's hand still petting over his hair, he pulls away apologetically. Kuro doesn't look bothered at all, but even still, Mika bows bashfully, embarrassed at such a cowardly display.

"Sorry. That was real dumb of me, I got all outta control on ya..."

"Don't worry yourself about it," Kuro says, ruffling Mika's already messy hair a little bit. Mika groans a halfhearted complaint. "And anyway, I have something to go over with Valkyrie, so while I'm here I might as well let you know."

"Nnah?" Mika flops back onto the bed, staring up absently at the ceiling. "But I can't make decisions for Valkyrie on my own, y'know, Oshi-san's gotta be there to approve it..."

"I can bounce it off ya if you want first. Itsuki looks pretty wiped out, but you can tell him when he wakes up and have him call me back, yeah?" Kuro's back is all that's visible of him from where Mika is sprawled over the bed, and he feels the crown of his head pressing gently against the bone of Shu's leg.

"I guess thas' fine. Uh, okay, shoot."

"We Akatsuki want to challenge Valkyrie to a Dreamfes."

"Whaa... Wait, huh? An actual Dreamfes?!" Mika panics briefly, but Kuro's hand rests on his leg before it can start kicking. "Uhh, is this one of those offers I ain't allowed to refuse or..."

"Nah, we can easily find another unit to perform with, and it's just a B1, so you don't have to if you don't want to. But I think it'd be good for you."

Mika thinks about it, humming absentmindedly. "But Oshi-san still doesn't wanna be on stage if he ain't perfect... I wanna do it, yeah, but I dunno if I can convince him and all?"

"It might be easier if you let him know I challenged him. Well, maybe not challenged," Kuro acknowledges with a huff of laughter. "That's a little intimidating. I'm _inviting_ you to perform against us, more like."

"So we don't gotta accept." Mika nods. He casts a glance back down at Shu's motionless body, the slow, almost imperceptible swelling of his chest as he sleeps. "I really wanna do it," Mika breathes. "I really do. I just gotta make Oshi-san believe somehow."

"If anyone can do that, it's you." Kuro smiles warmly, watching Shu breathe almost imperceptibly. "I miss him up there, you know? I miss how bright he shone. Like a damn star, even as he fell."

Mika imagines, Mika remembers: a blaze of passion and pain, hurtling through the atmosphere, catching sudden fire when the air itself created too much friction, and plummeting, plummeting in a shower of light, and sound too far out there to reach the earth.

Falling, in each other's arms. That was-- that _is_ , still-- the remains of Valkyrie.

"I couldn't protect him, huh?" Kuro laughs, self-deprecatingly, shrugging, the halfhearted smile he wears a terrible gash on his face. "Couldn't keep my promise. He's gotta hate me for it. And I still don't understand him, not... not completely. I never understood why he kept doing this to himself, you know? Like he wanted to fall apart someday."

Mika knows.

"I think you get it better than I do," Kuro admits. "But if there's anything I can still do from where I am right now, I want to do it."

"Yer givin' me too much credit, Kiryu-senpai," Mika whines. "I know why he does the stuff he does but he won't let me _help_ him, so there's nothin' I can do, and it's the worst. The _worst_ ," and the words come twisted into a frustrated shout from his mouth, he slams his fist into the bed in an unexpected outburst. The recoil shocks him into silence, and then into understanding. He's been doing this an awful lot lately, lashing out at anything and anyone with short, sharp bursts of staccato fury, even feeling it physically in his body-- the stomping feet, the surge up to yell at the school nurse from the infirmary bed-- these moments of flaring anger.

Some things, just like shooting stars, just like Valkyrie, are supposed to be like that.

Kuro doesn't reach out to touch Mika, just lets it rest. Mika rubs the sob out of his eyes and chokes it back down his throat. "Sorry," he sniffs, smiling a bit, _trying_ to. "Keep bein' dumb and doin' dumb stuff like that. Uhh, anyway, I'll bring it up with Oshi-san once he-- oh."

Shu's breath stammers, leaves its steady inaudible rhythm, and then he turns over. His eyes don't even open when he sighs, " _Quiet_ , Kagehira," but at least he's facing up now, watching the ceiling behind his eyelids.

"Uwah, yer awake? Ya feelin' alright? Oshi-saaan, I put some ice on yer head earlier but it prob'ly swole up worse while y'were asleep..."

"I said quiet," Shu grumbles into the pillow, listlessly. "...How long was I out for?"

"Twenty minutes, maybe?" Kuro's low, resonant voice-- Mika can feel Shu start in bed.

“Ry— Kiryu? Why are you..."

"I had some business with ya earlier while you were passed out, but Kagehira-kun picked up the phone, and took that opportunity to get my help to move you up here." Kuro is matter-of-fact, and it just makes Shu sigh even louder.

"Kagehira, what did I tell you about... Nnh, never mind." Shu dismisses it. After all, if Mika didn't pick up the phone, he would have probably woken up still in Mika's lap on the kitchen floor, which-- he dispels the thought that it would be quite nice to wake up in Mika's lap-- would have wrecked his back by the time he came to. "I am tired. Tell me your business later, Kiryu, unless it takes you less than thirty seconds to explain."

"It's not that complicated."

"You're on the clock," Shu prompts him. Kuro looks frazzled. Mika has a feeling Kuro's been putting up with Shu's whims for a lot longer than he has.

"Akatsuki wants to challenge Valkyrie to a Live to get you back on stage. B1, unofficial, Kagehira-kun was all for it. Just..." Kuro pats the bed next to Shu, just once, like a sendoff. "Just think about it, yeah? He'll tell you anything else when you're ready, or I'll Line you."

A small silence ensues, but to both of their surprises, Shu doesn't automatically refuse the way he has for months. "Hmph," he huffs, a bit tiredly, and turns over, away from Mika and Kuro on the side of the bed. "Don't expect anything."

That seems to be satisfying enough for Kuro. He stands up, relieving the bed of a very large weight, making the antique brass frame creak. "Yeah, yeah," he waves, and turns to leave. "I'll check up on you later. Get some rest, Itsuki."

"Thanks much for yer help, Kiryu-senpai!" Mika pipes up, and Kuro offers a nod of solidarity and a gentle wave as he closes the door softly behind him.

Mika waits until he hears the closing of the front door, and then pads over to the other side of the bed, snuggling himself in next to Shu. He doesn't curl close, not yet, not when Shu's in this kind of mood, but he is just close enough-- not touching, never overlapping-- to emanate enough warmth that Shu can't help a little sigh.

Shu himself is not going to admit what he wants right now is to pull Mika close to his body, and fall asleep just like they did in the infirmary, just like they do every night, eventually clinging and wrapping each other up like their bodies do in sleep, when their minds aren't around to tell them to stop.

"Oshi-san?" comes Mika's quiet murmur from behind him.

"Mm."

"What're ya thinking? 'Bout the Live, 'n all."

"I'm _not_ thinking," Shu grouses. "Go to sleep."

"Will y'think about it when ya wake up?" Mika pesters.

"Fine."

Mika seems to have gotten what he wanted, and they are quiet, for a few blessed moments until he speaks again.

"I wanna be up on that stage again with ya so bad, Oshi-san. I want it more than anythin'."

His voice is trembling, afraid, and yet painted with wonder, as if just the thought of performing as Valkyrie once again is dazzling-bright. Shu doesn't tell him to be quiet. He doesn't have the right.

"I know you do," Shu whispers, an affirmation, and falls into sleep.

 

* * *

 

Of course it doesn’t last— the stability, the momentary feeling that he has it all down— and Kuro’s plans all come to a screeching halt when he gets the call: Hasumi Keito has had a sudden onset of flowers, coughing up blood and petals, but unlike the last few attacks (which were short, sharp bursts of pain and breathlessness and lotus petals) it hasn’t stopped. Souma’s voice on the phone is panicked and choked with sobs, and by the way Keito sounds, hacking and heaving in the background, the thought comes to Kuro that this might finally be it.

Well, he’ll be damned and thrown to hell before he lets that happen. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Keito. He’s on his way before Souma can even give him directions— he doesn’t _need_ directions, he knows Keito’s place like the back of his hand, the wooded path just on the edge of town, the way the concrete gets swallowed up by beaten dirt and the shadows of trees, their glittering shade in summer. The temple is an austere place, quite like Keito himself, but tonight it feels even more silent, almost as if everything has gone quiet in pity, the world straining its ears to hear the sound of Keito’s despair.

It’s cold in the snowless December night and Kuro’s breaths are clouded white, left behind in a faint trail behind him as he runs— and yet his body is burning, his heart is inflamed inside him, and there’s sweat on his brow, streaking over his eyelids and stinging like tears. He blinks it out, unconcerned with anything but that dirt path, that moment where the streetlights no longer line every corner, casting the trail into the temple area into yellow half-darkness. Kicking up pebbles, now, he passes through the gate, not even bothering to wash his hands and mouth at the basin, then behind the relatively modest _butsuden_ and into the family’s quarters. He doesn’t knock, but no one reacts in fear to the screen door slamming open, and then he can hear it: the sorrowful sound of blood and flowers hitting the tatami. Keito’s in the next room.

Souma opens the door before Kuro can come in. His face is gaunt with panic, his ever-present sword missing from his side. "Kiryu-dono," and his voice is shaking, and Keito passes into another fit of coughs on the futon behind him. "What should we do? It hasn't been this bad since..."

"I know, I know," Kuro soothes, pressing down the panic, and kneels at the side of Keito's futon, reaches a hand over to rub firm, warm circles into his back. This helps, when Keito starts to cough and won't stop; Kuro has heard a lot about hanahaki and how it fluctuates depending on emotions. Hanahaki, from what he knows, is dependent on the suffering of its host; the more Keito thinks about Eichi, the more flowers fall from his lips, and the tighter his chest becomes. But put a hanahaki patient in the arms of a close friend, someone who makes them feel loved and safe, and the pain eases up, because the heart is no longer circulating its loneliness, the water that brings the seeds to sprout.

Kuro keeps rubbing Keito's back, hitting it firmly every so often, when Keito chokes on a particularly large bloom or a conglomerate of petals. Souma kneels in perfect seiza, loyal by his side, raises a glass of water to Keito's parched, cracked lips. He's losing so much water through the endless vomiting, when there's nothing but flowers and water to throw up, so they have to keep rehydrating him.

(Like taking care of a plant that grows faster the more you cut it. Unable to remove the roots, just pruning the flowers back for as long as possible, until they grow too fast and engulf the body.)

"Shit, Hasumi-danna, I think I had something to bring up with you," _but I can't remember for the life of me what it was when you're in so much pain like this._ Keito knows, though, somehow, and pulls a sticky camellia petal off his tongue before he answers.

"Were you thinking of a Live?" Keito's voice is so raspy, so uncharacteristically hoarse, and Kuro feels almost bad for asking, especially if Keito is in this condition. _But Itsuki's not much better,_ is the bitter thought that comes next, that he swallows down without voicing.

"Yeah," Kuro admits, exhausted. "I wanted to do a favor for an old friend that needs to get back on stage, but... in this kind of condition, it's--"

"Don't you dare say I can't perform," Keito huffs. "I'll be fine if it's more than a week from now. Itsuki, is it? You want to challenge Valkyrie?"

"Uh, yeah," Kuro shuffles a little, nervous. "Damn, you really can read me. I'm worried, danna, you can't go on stage like this..."

"I won't be in this sorry condition for much longer," Keito says, and then leans over and coughs up a few morning glories. "We can crush them easily, no matter what state I'm in, so don't concern yourself over me."

Kuro narrows his eyes at Keito, but doesn't say anything more. He's hit with the realization that if Keito wants this as much as he does (or _would_ , if Keito wasn't in such a dangerous condition) then he has no right to deny him. After all, the severity does tend to come and go, especially when Keito is focused on something that isn't Eichi.

"If you're sure, then. Kanzaki?"

"Y-Yes, Kiryu-dono!" Souma's voice is a little high, a little startled.

"You're up for a B1 Live when Hasumi gets better next week?"

"Of course, Kiryu-dono!"

Keito laughs, a soft sound Kuro feels like he hasn't heard in a long time, and then clears his throat of a flurry of peony stamens.

 

* * *

 

They have one week to practice, and although Mika still has to pull him out of bed in the mornings, Shu seems… better. In the dance practice room he directs, cueing them in with an eight-count, and Mika can feel his eyes watching him, checking to see if their movements align, if Mika’s-- or even his own-- form is perfect. It never truly is, but it gets pretty damn close, and once again Mika finds himself awed by his Oshi-san’s talent, a strength and poise he can never quite measure up to.

He tries not to get too distracted by the lithe, smooth movements of Shu’s hips, the way his lips part ever so slightly as he rolls up, Shu’s thin forearms in the practice clothes-- then his turn is a half beat late, and, well, so much for not getting distracted, because Mika can feel the rise of tickling flowers in his throat, and he’s not about to let Shu see what they are. He stands up so quick that his back cracks audibly, and hurries to the bathroom, not even getting into the stall before they spill from his lips.

Thin, spindly stamens and soft white petals. Some sort of cactus, and then the fringed edges of a deep pink carnation.

He’s glad he didn’t stay long enough to let Shu see this.

When he returns to practice, panting and apologizing profusely, Shu just waves his hand and counts them in again, without another word. This time Mika makes sure his vision is in soft focus, that he’s watching himself as well, and his movements look much better when he’s not directly watching Shu. It feels a little better like this, he feels more confident, and a smile splits his face in the middle of a chasse when he realizes that _this is for real, we’re gonna be on stage together again._ This isn’t just regular practice, this is _preparation._

“What are you grinning about?” comes Shu’s voice from beside him, scolding as he continues the step, and Mika’s smile just widens.

“Nothin’, Oshi-san.” Turn, arabesque, and then drop. “Nothin’ at all.”

 

* * *

 

Kuro looks like he's burning. On stage, his childhood friend has a confident ease about him, a powerful dominance that makes Shu wonder for a moment why that third-rate writer Hasumi, and not Kuro, is the official leader of Akatsuki. He flicks fans out with both hands, crossing them over his body, giving Shu a long, lingering look of challenge before he falls back into place among the other two, a tornado of red and white.

Shu has never been one to run away from a challenge on stage. Oh no. He feels the familiar surge of heat and pride, the way his chest feels fit to burst, and for a second he forgets why he had left the stage at all in the first place-- this, _this_ is where he belongs, up here, in the burning spotlights. Mika, beside him, all lithe legs and surprisingly sexy hips, steps and sways in perfect time to the way Shu moves. _Ah, and his singing has improved_. They're in harmony now, in their belting voices, driving a wedge into the crack in Akatsuki's song and splitting it open. Kuro doesn't falter, but Keito, somehow, does.

That voice, smooth and strong, the core of Akatsuki, suddenly cracks. For a second Shu thinks nothing of it, until one of Keito's knees give out in the middle of a turn, and then-- a heaving, terribly shaky, painful-sounding cough.

Kuro's face immediately pales under the lights. Keito is on his knees now, hacking and heaving, and he yanks his mic away from his face before he retches and spills blood and black lilies all over the floor of the stage.

"Oh my God," Kuro breathes, then waves his hand to the back of the stage to signal the sound guy. The instrumental cuts off, and Shu watches in helpless silence, wide-eyed and suddenly horrified, as blood dribbles from Keito's mouth and whole blooms of purple-black flowers land with wet sounds onto the floor in front of him. His eyes look dazed, his body is spasming and seizing-- Shu looks behind him at the sound of a choking sniffle, and Mika has his hands over his face, his golden eye peeking from between his fingers, fear coloring his features.

The crowd is in uproar, a flurry of movement and chattering, and Shu spots Isara from class 2-B in the front row frantically dialing on his phone, presumably for an ambulance. Security at S-rank lives can be pretty tight, but this is just a B-rank, just practice, _it was just supposed to be practice,_ Shu thinks, realizing in horror that this opportunity to move back into the light is going to end in tragedy-- and not for Valkyrie.

Sirens are blaring before Shu knows it. Kuro is crouched, rubbing Keito's back, soothing him, trying to coax the flowers out, but now there's more blood, big globs of it, like Keito is coughing up the insides of his lungs. "Hasumi-danna," Kuro is saying, and he's crying, his strong, fearless Ryuu-kun is _crying_ , biting his lip and holding on to Keito the best he can, "Hasumi, H-- _Keito_ ," but Keito isn't responding, all that passes his lips is blood and flowers, blood and flowers, and he collapses, unable to hold himself up anymore. Kuro chokes, sucking a breath through his teeth, a wince of pain, a tearing sob.

The ambulance arrives in time, but the paramedics don't, and by the time they have the stretcher on the stage, Keito-- Keito is gone.

 

* * *

 

The world has stopped. The school has frozen. No one has picked up the flowers yet.

With soiled hands, strong and unsteady, Kuro kneels on the auditorium stage, retrieving all that’s left of Hasumi Keito, petal by bloodied petal. He gathers them tight yet gentle into his left hand— can’t crush or bruise these remains, he has to preserve just this— while he plucks them from the black floor, still scattered with shimmer and red and gold, their half-disassembled set lingering in the wings. A reminder.

( _This is the least he can do. It’s as much his fault as it is Eichi’s._ )

By the bluish glow of the ghost light, standing alone center stage, Kuro holds back a shaking breath— letting the air out like that would let the tears out as well— and opens his left hand to the collection of black lilies and lotuses and dahlia petals. He can’t tell the difference between the red ones— power, strength— and the white ones, only red with Keito’s blood. That focused purity, dignity, tainted by a love that took over his body, left him without enough room in his lungs to breathe.

But these bare hands, this familiar skin— Kuro can touch what is left of him, no distance between them, no fear of contamination. His fingers, thick and strong, are coated with red, the smell of iron lingering, lingering. It will stick to him for days, pungent and paralyzing, tainting him in crimson-colored blame. Kuro tries not to breathe through his nose.

These are a gift. These are a promise, the bones of a promise. These belong to someone, Kuro knows. Someone they should be returned to.

 

And that someone is not him.

 

It will never be him.

But Kuro is selfish, and he is bitter, and the heavy feeling of tears in his throat is starting to fade; they still linger there, of course, but he is growing numb. Kuro is selfish, and so, he leaves the rest of the petals scattered over the stage, an almost ethereal glow in the ghost light, walks backstage, and to the nearest bathroom.

Here, under these particular buzzing fluorescents, he can finally see just how much of Keito’s blood he has on his hands. There’s no way he could go anywhere close to the temple without ritual cleansing first, washing over and over again until he can get the stain of rust and guilt out from underneath his nails, from the whorl in his fingerprints. But he can start here.

He leaves a little blood on the tap when he turns it on— it’s fine, he can just clean it after, right now he is becoming something else— and runs his hands under the cold wash of water, keeping the petals cupped in his palms. Something so clear runs pink in an instant, and Kuro feels the flowers trying to escape, so he clasps his hands together and runs the water through the gaps between his fingers, watching the stained water pour out. Once it runs clear, Kuro grabs a paper towel to twist the tap back off, and stares at the collection of flowers in his hands.

Now that the blood has been washed off, he can tell apart the petals— just as he thought, red and white dahlias, waxy lotus and those cursed black lilies. Again, he remembers, this is supposed to be a gift, but every time he looks down at his hands, then back up at his darkened reflection in the mirror— every time, he wants to take it for himself.

And so he does.

_You can’t have all of him. You don’t deserve it._

_You took him from me, you wretched bastard._

 

(Except Kuro isn’t sure who he’s talking about anymore, who was taken from him. He can’t tell, when he closes his eyes, if the ones he sees like an afterimage are hazel-green or purple.)

 

He opens his mouth, closes his eyes, and places a single lotus petal on his tongue.

 

_(Look, your flower has bloomed.)_

 

It’s futile. Kuro already knows. He can’t catch the disease, even if he wanted to.

 

The flowers will not recognize a love for someone who is already dead.

 

* * *

  


The wake passes as slowly as the night. Most everyone from the idol course arrives, one after the other, solemn eyes and black suits, processing through the door of the temple without saying a word. Through the crowd, in the line in front of them, Shu spots Tenshouin Eichi handing over an envelope of condolence money, his expression sunken and sorrowful, fingering a set of what looks like prayer beads. For a moment, the bitterness fades from his vision, and he sees his tormentor as the sick, fearful, very _human_ boy he must be, somewhere under all that malice.

“Oshi-san?”

And then the illusion is broken— Mika’s hand, tugging on the sleeve of Shu’s jacket, is insistent and warm. “Oshi-san, yer spacin’ out…”

That touch is grounding, pulling Shu back to something solid, something real. “Ah,” he blinks, looking at Mika, then down to his feet as the line processes slowly. “Kagehira, the gift is in your pocket, hand it to me.”

Mika hums and pulls the black-and-white envelope from his suit pocket, placing it in Shu’s hand, the slightest brush of fingers— Shu feels the leap of tension in his throat, and stifles the surge of flowers that threaten to spill from his mouth. Not here, not in such a situation, and when they reach the priest standing at the doorway, Shu bows and hands the envelope over with both hands. When he raises his head, he knows by the color of the man’s eyes that this is Keito’s father— pious and austere, but very obviously hiding a pain that he does not have the time or space to display. Mika nods to him, and they pass through the door, their condolence money swapped with sticks of incense as another priest leads them to their seats.

Again, Shu’s eyes follow Eichi, sitting in the front row next to who he assumes are other family members, and the irony does not miss him. He knows— most of Keito’s classmates know, after all— who those flowers were for. The murderer of the deceased has a seat next to his family at the funeral. But Eichi’s head is already bowed, like he can’t even look up at Keito’s coffin, at the flowers surrounding it, and Shu has to bite his lip and cast his eyes back down to keep anything from coming up.

_(And suddenly he sees himself from above, motionless and pale in the coffin, Mika sitting silently in a front seat, a fine trembling over his whole body as he keeps in a rush of tears. And then Mika is in the back, expressionless and unmoving, no sign of sadness on his face. And then Mika is gone, the funeral going on without him, because how presumptuous of him to assume that Mika would cry for his death—)_

Shu swallows a particularly stubborn clump of flowers that come up to scent the back of his mouth. They taste unusually like sweet peas.

The head priest begins the sutra, a monotone, hypnotic chant that Shu hasn’t heard in quite a while, and one by one the mourners rise with their incense. Keito’s family moves as one, black and green-brown, up at the altar, closest to the dead, and Shu and Mika go to a separate urn, place the sticks (fragrant and musky and woody, relievingly different from the scent of flowers) into the censer, and turn away.

When they sit back down, Shu doesn’t know how to feel. The sound of the priest’s chanting is solemn, mesmerizing, and he doesn’t want to think too much, so he just closes his eyes and listens. He doesn’t need any more reminders that the next ceremony held here might be his— the flowers crawling up his throat are more than enough.

He looks at Mika, and Mika clutches at his sleeve, and without making eye contact they know. It’s sinking in.

Shu will take his love to the grave.

_(Mika will gather his love in his arms and follow.)_

 

It’s dark by the time the sutra is over, and Shu meets Kuro outside, in the chill of winter, Mika hiding behind him. Kuro’s face is a mixture of despair and acceptance, his eyes narrow and downcast. Shu can see the dark circles against his tan skin, the obvious stress painted into every crease and line of his chiseled face, and suddenly he can’t find any words to say.

“Kagehira, you go ahead,” Shu sighs, handing him the house keys from his pocket. Mika nods rapidly, taking off in a clumsy dash, not wanting to spend any more time in this cold than is required. Shu looks back— Kuro’s eyes are searching, sunken. “You…”

Kuro doesn’t say anything.

“You loved him, didn’t you?”

Kuro nods slowly. Then, with obvious effort, obvious care in his choice of words, he says, “Please, don’t make me lose you too.”

Shu can’t say anything to that; he can only offer a breath, a downcast glance, a wisp of white into the winter air.

“That’s a no, then?”

“I don’t know what you’re asking me.” He can’t look at Kuro. He can’t.

“I’m asking you to get it removed,” Kuro huffs, through his teeth. “Do you value your life? Because at this rate, that’s the only way you can live.”

The cold is in Shu’s bones.

“Or is it that you _want_ to die?”

The cold is in Shu’s heart.

“Look, you— you’re being _selfish_ , you can’t just go around and martyr yourself when there are people that _care_ about you.”

_Who?_

“Are you even listening to me, Itsuki?!”

Shu nods slightly. Imagines the warmth of Mika’s fingers around his. Imagines the black lilies over the stage.

“Then answer me, damn it,” Kuro curses, hissing through his teeth, all grief and frustration that Shu can’t soothe. What is he supposed to say? _I’m sorry, you’re right, I’ll go get it removed?_ He would be lying, lying to make someone _feel better,_ which is everything that Shu hates— false comfort, false promises, being sweetened and let down. It wouldn’t be right.

He’s already made his decision. He can already feel the flowers swelling in his lungs, dividing and curling and blooming, and blooming, and blooming.

He is ready now.

“I’m sorry,” falls out of his mouth, and with it, a white chrysanthemum. Kuro looks at him, a hard, long, pained look, and Shu can feel the strings connecting them finally snap.

And before Kuro can turn around and walk away, Shu does it for him.

Red camellias and white chrysanthemum petals line the path back home.

 


	5. one year later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's finally over.

_stand to face me beloved  
and open out the grace of your eyes   _

_\- sappho fr. 138  
translation by anne carson _

 

* * *

 

It’s September, and the cold hasn’t come in yet; the days are still long and warm, and the sun still lingers long enough in the sky, so Mika's next on-campus job is in the garden. He encounters Hajime there, soft blue hair feathered over his face. The younger boy looks up at Mika with a gentle smile, as his gloved fingers pull the dead buds off the azalea bushes.

“Hello, Kagehira-senpai,” he says, delicate, attention turning back to the fuchsia-pink blooms. Mika smiles back, half-waving as he straps his gloves on. “Oh, you’re going to work on the garden with me?”

“Yup, looks like we got the same job today!” Brightly, he bounces into a squat next to Hajime. “Nobody told me nothin’ about what I gotta do, though, so can y’tell me?”

“Well, today I’ve been deadheading the flowers,” Hajime says. When Mika’s face stays puzzled, he explains: “Sometimes, when a flower on a plant is done blooming, and it stays on the plant, the flower turns into seeds, and the plant thinks its job is done. If you keep removing the ones that are done, new blooms will keep coming in.” He points at a somewhat shriveled azalea blossom, one that has obviously passed its prime. “Since the goal of a plant is to grow, bloom, and set seed, removing flowers before they seed makes the plant keep blooming until you let it seed so it can perpetuate its life cycle.”

“But ain’t that a bit unfair?” Mika pouts, but pinches off the dying bloom anyway. “It must get awful anxious.” He knows it’s stupid, thinking of plants as if they have human emotions, but the concept just seems kind of sad. Hajime understands, though, the soft, insignificant things that Mika worries about.

“Mm, that’s true… Think of it this way, then,” Hajime lilts, and smiles. “They get to live and experience as much as they can during the summer, then they feel accomplished when they get to seed, and rest happily… And they come back, in the spring, after all. They get to see the whole summer.”

Mika chuckles. Hajime’s explanation makes sense, in that little part of him that personifies the whole world, that cares for each living and nonliving thing as if it were human. “Alright, ya got me. Jus’ the ones that look dyin’, right? We can let the nice ones be for now.”

“Mhm,” Hajime nods. He guides Mika to a few other sad-looking blooms. “Just pinch them off. Exactly like how you’re doing it, yes.”

“It’s kinda nice to know we’re encouragin’ the flowers to live ’s much as they can…” Mika muses, standing up to get the ones on the upper level of the bushes. “Mm, how’s Nazuna-nii? He doin’ alright with you all?”

“Ah, if you get the top I can finish this one…” Hajime giggles, moves over to start working on the next bush. “Nii-chan is busy, lately, but he’s always smiling. We have to get ready for a photo shoot soon, so he’s a bit stressed, but I offered to make the outfits so he’s lightened his load a little bit.”

Mika feels a pang. Nazuna always did take on too much at a time, even when he technically wasn't allowed to. He wishes he could help, but that time is long past, and all Mika can do is watch Nazuna from a distance while simultaneously pretending he doesn't care anymore.

"Kagehira-senpai?"

Hajime's voice snaps Mika out of the sinking feeling.

"Ah, y-yeah. 'M fine, don' worry." He shakes his head rapidly, as if to clear the thoughts from between his ears, and pinches off another dead bloom. His attention turns to another flower, however; something lily-looking, pink and pretty and somehow familiar. Immediately, a memory comes back: a curled petal in his palm, Shu's fingers around Mika's other sleeve. "D'ya know what flower that is?"

"Oh, this?" Hajime stoops down to examine it. "This is an amaryllis. It's pretty, isn't it?"

"'S beautiful," Mika breathes, and something completes itself in his mind, clicking gently together. Something from so long ago, resolved in a quiet moment. "Haji-chan, d'ya know flower language?"

"Ah-- yes," Hajime stammers, sounding confused but pleased all the same. "I like flowers so much, I ended up learning about flower language while I was concentrating on how to raise them. ...Amaryllis means shyness."

Mika can't stop the round, breathy "ohhhh" that eases from his mouth.  He doesn't know why it feels so important, that he understands now-- it was only one petal, one simple action, but it feels so much more important.

It really has been a year. Mika thinks about Shu, someone so high above him, someone who has fallen so far. And yet, he is by his side, even today, struggling back up towards the stage together, towards those shining lights. Shu seems... better, in some ways; he's less reluctant to perform, and lately, they've been winning Lives and regaining some of their fame. Their core fans, of course, are dedicated as ever, but Valkyrie is gaining reputation again, especially after the cathartic, mindblowing mess that Tanabata was for them. Mika still trembles in awe, sometimes, thinking about the way Shu came sweeping towards the emperor with fire in his eyes and rage in each twitch of his fingers, and although they had lost that night, he knows that they had won something more important. Shu had won his dignity back.

But the curled flower petal in his hand speaks of a moment before Shu lost his dignity in the first place. It speaks of a moment before everything fell apart, a moment frozen in time where Mika's heart had thrilled in his chest-- he remembers it like he was walking on air, Shu's fingers curled around his sleeve, the backs of their hands gently touching.

They've come far, Mika realizes, but-- what happened? _Where did it go wrong?_

"Kagehira-senpai?"

Again, Hajime's soft voice breaks Mika's reverie. He blinks, eyes wide for a moment before exhaling a sighing breath. "Yeah? Sorry, I got a li'l distracted."

"I was just worried," Hajime admits, trims another dead azalea from the bush. "You looked as if you were about to cry."

 

* * *

 

An embroidered organza bag full of flower petals turns up in Eichi’s shoe locker one day.

With it, comes a note.

 

_It was you he loved._

 

He looks down at the bag, takes it in his hands without thinking. Inside are what looks like dried white and red petals of different flowers. Dahlias-- Eichi knows enough about gardening to recognize them, and lotus petals. At the bottom of the bag, hidden within, is a single curled petal from a black lily.

He drops the bag, feels a swelling of pain in his throat-- it feels like an attack coming on, until he retches and spills bile and spindly red petals into his hands, and _oh god, oh god, oh god_ , like a greeting from the other side, on the banks of the river, a spider lily sits in his palm.

The last thought Eichi has before his knees give out and his body hits the ground is that he doesn't have to worry, _Keito will surely be the one to find me_.

He's unconscious before he has the chance to remember-- Keito isn't here anymore.

 

* * *

 

It’s Yuzuru, about to drag Tori home, that finds him unconscious on the floor next to the shoe lockers, a red spider lily fisted in his hand, the telltale bag of petals nowhere to be seen-- swept somewhere under a bench, lost against the floors. He calls Wataru immediately, because he’s nowhere near strong enough to lift Eichi despite his years of carting around belongings and luggage. But Wataru never answers-- _how unfortunate for you, that there is no cellphone service in my hot air balloon!_ his voicemail prompt rings back, loud and tinny through the phone speaker. So he gives it a try, taking care to push the fallen bloom under the lockers with his foot, and is surprised when Eichi’s body in his arms feels more like a cicada shell than an unconscious human being.

He ends up carrying Eichi on his back. Tori is in hysterics all the way up to the infirmary.

 

* * *

 

When Eichi wakes, his immediate thought is to call for Keito, if he’s not already sitting at his bedside. He groans, blinks and finds Yuzuru and Tori sitting across from him, both looking several shades of terrified. And then he remembers the flower.

It doesn’t make sense.

It doesn’t, not at all. Whichever way Eichi looks at it, nothing clicks. He shouldn’t be able to catch it in the first place-- he’s _dating_ Wataru, and unless there’s another love inside him that he hasn’t realized yet, he’s safe by any other count. It’s over. The war is over and Wataru is by his side and everything has gone his way and _he doesn’t want to die._

He should be safe. So why?

Nurse Sagami walks into the room, looking just as concerned, visible bags underneath his eyes. “It’s still going around?” he sighs, rubs his temples. As if it’s been enough of a nuisance to lose sleep over. Eichi wouldn’t be surprised. “Well, you in particular, Tenshouin-kun--”

“I know,” Eichi groans, throws an arm over his eyes. “It’s much more dangerous for me. I don’t want anything accelerating my inevitable early death, so I want it out. No questions asked.”

It’s not a hard decision, all things considered. Eichi doesn’t even know who the flowers are for in the first place, and he’s not about to give up everything he’s fought for, every achievement he’s clawed his way up to, bloodied his hands for, to make some sort of useless statement about love. He has Wataru. He has his unit. He has the whole school, and whoever his weak heart has decided on and not even told him yet, they’re not worth it.

“That was quick of you.” Sagami-sensei looks almost relieved to hear it. “Well, good. No one else is dying on my watch. Do you want me to get in touch right now, get you off to the ER?”

“Ugh, _please._ ” Eichi has never been so excited to go back to the hospital. “The sooner it’s done, the sooner I can go back to performing.”

“You’ll still have to spend maybe a week recuperating,” Sagami warns, already dialing, but Eichi doesn’t really listen. He’s used to spending weeks in and out of the hospital, he knows it’ll go by in no time, and a sudden bout of fatigue hits him before the nurse is even done with the call. He’s thankful for this-- he’s out within minutes, and barely even hears the ambulance sirens outside the school, come to cart him away.

 

* * *

 

The rest is a blur. He barely remembers the anesthesiologist’s name, dozes throughout the explanation of what’s going to happen, and is unconscious before the countdown even hits three. While he’s asleep, they open his chest, reach in to remove the seed embedded in his lungs, untangle the vines before they truly begin to grow. Gloved hands find morning glories, snapdragons, four-petaled spiderworts-- all preparing to bloom from inside him. And a yellow carnation, escaped from his lungs and already between his ribs. An assortment of buds fill the trash can in the operating room, all covered in blood and all soiled. All to be washed away with the rain.

The sound of a familiar walk outside in the hallway, and Wataru joins Yuzuru and Tori in the waiting room, looking the slightest bit uneasy, hands folded, unusually quiet. Almost as if in an apology, his head is lowered, hair falling in a curtain around him, making his features mostly inscrutable. He does not speak, does not try to lift the mood as he usually would when Eichi is undergoing treatment and the other three members of _fine_ have nothing more to do but wait. Tori squirms in his seat, obviously discomforted by the difference in aura. Yuzuru keeps his eyes set straight forward.

Wataru just breathes.

They stitch him closed, sealing Eichi’s lungs and stomach back together, without the seed of love that threatened to destroy him. Now safe. Now free of that pain before it could ever begin, and though he will need time to recover, nothing else will accelerate his already approaching death. He can stave it off for as long as he needs to, until he is ready.

Such an invasive procedure will need time. They have his room ready, almost as if it’s constantly reserved for him, for whenever he inevitably ends up back there again. Still decorated with the get-well cards and consolation flowers from last time, to boot. The three follow the gurney into the room, sit down (Tori on the windowsill, which Yuzuru scolds him for and promptly pulls him off) and wait for their emperor to wake up.

 

When he does, it’s the ceiling he sees first, before he struggles up-- the ripping pain in his abdomen stops him, and he has to move his hospital bed up into a sitting position rather than sit up by himself, but he waves weakly to Tori and Yuzuru sitting anxiously by the windowsill, and then to Wataru, standing next to the door.

He expects something more, the moment his eyes settle on Wataru’s figure-- he expects the thrill of relief, the way his soul feels like it’s being pulled up, rising on hot air, whenever he catches those eyes, and yet-- suddenly, he feels empty.

Empty as his lungs are of the flowers that threatened to fill them. Empty when he looks at Wataru, who he was willing to upend an entire school for, just for the chance to be worthy of his gaze, and now… Now, Eichi feels nothing, a very noticeable absence.

And then he realizes.

Wataru is looking at him, his lips smiling still, but with the coldest eyes. Only his mouth is pulled into a semblance of a smile, and after a few tense moments, even that drops. Eichi knows he should be crying, he should be feeling something besides the distinctive sense of losing something he never had in the first place. But Wataru just stares, expression completely inscrutable, somewhere between indifference and insistence, his eyes sharp and piercing.

Eichi’s throat closes up, though he knows there are no more flowers inside him. That there is nothing more inside him but regret, for what feels like an already distant past.

Wataru nods, solemnly, as if confirming what Eichi had already known. What he should have known all along. And then he turns, his hair a cape behind him, jacket resting on his shoulders and sweeping an arc through the dust on the linoleum as he leaves the hospital room, leaves the cage that was Eichi’s heart.

 

* * *

 

No, he never loved him, the charade is over, the performance has finally ended, the dance Wataru thought he would be dancing forever has halted. No, he never loved him, a variety of masks every day, behind each like a separate person, twisting to fit Eichi’s every whim, every capriciously shifting mood. The storm is over. The curtains have closed. Wataru can rest.

He turns in his resignation to the Student Council a week later. Eichi looks at him when he slides the form onto his desk-- a long, purposeful look, almost of disappointment, but Wataru ignores it. He doesn’t need it now.

“I would quite like it if you could stay in _fine_ , at least,” Eichi sighs. “Your presence has made us quite formidable, and I don’t want to lose you, if I can help it.”

Wataru eyes him warily. “Mm, have I? I don’t recall ever performing at my absolute best while restricted to a unit.”

“Then I shudder to imagine that absolute best.” Eichi looks resigned. He knows there’s nothing else he can do, and the feeling that sets into him, like suddenly noticing the column of Earth’s air pressure pushing down through his skull, is something like shame. Exhausted, he signs the form, and then stamps it. “I look forward to seeing your solo activities in the near future.”

“No need for the Emperor to go out of his way for a mere jester,” Wataru says, and turns to leave the room, waving a hand. “Farewell, then.”

As he leaves he swears he can feel Keito’s eyes on his back, judging and sorrowful.

 

And he thinks about Shu. He retreats to the theater clubroom, head down, long paces, propelling himself forward despite everything in his body telling him to change course to the handicrafts clubroom and drop to his knees and just confess to Shu-- _you’re finally free,_ his body sings in its ache, _you can tell him now,_ but… no. He couldn’t. Not like this, not on this sort of rebound, not out of nowhere. He has to reach out first, and--

He thinks about knees. About Shu collapsed on the stage a year ago, every limb sagging and his head lifeless and loose, a doll inanimate with its strings cut, broken. About all the times he had kneeled before Eichi and swept his arms out in some dramatic display of fealty. About those knees threatening to buckle right now, in the middle of the hallway.

He makes a sharp turn and enters the dark-lit clubroom, warm and full of fabrics and roses and props and everything Wataru loves most. Full of masks.

Only then does he wobble, let himself crash down onto the velvet couch, let himself cry.

It takes a while before he’s able to recover himself-- he hasn’t cried in quite a while, and it’s evident how unfamiliar it is to feel tears that don’t belong to the stage in rivulets down his cheeks, ruining his makeup, mascara smudging when he rubs at his eyes. It’s a little jarring to feel the emotions as his own; Wataru can cry on command, he can wrench himself into any expression in the name of acting, but this is his, this will always only be his.

When his breathing finally stabilizes, he finally makes a decision, pulling out his phone and browsing around the Yumenosaki website until he finds it-- the next Valkyrie performance, a week from now, a public Live announcing their comeback. His heart twists, an exquisite and blissful ache, remembering Shu, radiant and giving off rage and passion and light, like getting too close to a star. And his enticing, taunting, almost _flirtatious_ voice--

_Normally, I alone would be sufficient enough to scatter you all about… Wataru._

\--as he pulled him in by the wrist, suddenly closing the distance, fixing him in place with that burning gaze. And then spinning him away, knocking Wataru from his brief presence in his orbit, leaving him dazzled…

Shu has become something grotesquely beautiful in his absence from the stage. Like piecing himself together wrong on purpose, creating a jarring, esoteric creature from his own shattered remains, razor-sharp from its jagged planes, something that should not be touched. And yet, Wataru still wants to reach out, to graze his hands over Shu’s new edges, to shed his own blood in repentance.

He marks it down on his calendar, and Tomoya enters the room.

“Oh, Buchou, you’re here,” he halfheartedly muses, glancing past Wataru quickly as he rummages through the costume rack. And then Tomoya gives a double take-- _he looked like he was crying?--_ but Wataru is too fast, already has a feathered, glittering mask over his eyes, a magic trick. Like it was never there at all.

“Mm, yes. Worry not, Tomoya-kun, I’m not here to disturb you. I wasn’t expecting your company, in fact.”

“Why _are_ you here?”

Wataru smiles, but only with his mouth. That’s all that matters, after all, behind a mask.

“Simply to take a break.”

 

* * *

 

This Live-- it's going to be the most important, most prestigious performance Valkyrie has done since the fall. People not from the academy, fans from all over awaiting their return, have gathered at the doors of the Yumenosaki auditorium, jostling and yelling and refusing to stay in line. Shu dodges the crowds and darts backstage, past the security guards who nod when Shu makes split-second eye contact, and Mika has to grab onto Shu's sleeve to keep from being swallowed into the crowd. He keeps scanning what he can see of Shu's face in front of him, nervously trying to figure out if he's going to be mad later, but for now Shu doesn't seem bothered, and Mika sighs in relief.

"The doors open in one hour. We must be quick, Kagehira," Shu snaps, unlocking the dressing room door and sweeping in. Mika can see a bead of sweat rolling down the back of Shu's neck, notices the subtle shaking of those usually perfect, steady hands, and when Shu turns around to inspect Mika, as he always does before performances, Mika tilts his head, worried.

"Oshi-san... yer shakin'. Are ya alright?"

Shu purses his lips, obviously noticing, and then clenches his fists in an effort to get them to stop trembling. But he can't hide from Mika, and his eyes shift back and forth, trying to focus anywhere else, anywhere but the subtle sadness, the piercing worry in those beautiful mismatched eyes. Eventually he sighs, turns away and starts dabbing his face with a nearby hot towel, left out by the producer in preparation for the Live.

"It's... different," he admits, facing the mirror, hoping Mika isn't watching him too closely while he starts to apply his primer and foundation. "A stage like this... You know how long it has been, since we last stood in such a spotlight-- Kagehira," he grimaces, when he notices Mika has been sitting there doing nothing staring into his eyes through the mirror. "Get ready, right now. Or do you need me to dress you?"

"No, I gotta get makeup first, remember?" Mika grins, a little nervously. "Oshi-san, y'always said makeup first, 'cause I'm clumsy and I get it all over my pretty outfits when I do it after..."

Shu makes a mental note not to let Mika catch him in a mistake like that again. He bites back an indignified sputter, then sighs. "No, you're right. Ah, it's been forever since we have needed full faces of stage makeup... With these lights, and the photographers as well..." He grimaces at the thought. "Do your foundation like I taught you, and I will do the rest once I've finished my own."

Mika imagines Shu's hands gentle on his face, tilting his chin up, stroking his thumb over his bottom lip to get him to open his mouth, and the sensation of flowers creeping up his throat is back. He scrambles over to the garbage bin and coughs up a few petals, a flash of pink and the taste of roses filling his mouth. It clears as quickly as it began, and Mika goes obediently over to the mirror next to Shu, who has already contoured and is by now applying a gentle white-gold highlight just under the arches of his eyebrows.

Mika could watch Shu concentrate for hours, but he knows he has work to do as well. He's as careful as he can be putting on the foundation, making sure it's even, that the color isn't off-- even if his hands are a little weak, thinking about Shu doing his makeup, Shu dressing him, taking care of him in that gentle way he does...

(The way that, if Mika didn't know any better, would convince him that Shu loved him--)

Mika coughs a few white camellia petals into the hand not covered with foundation, and stares at them for a few moments before setting them on the corner of the dresser, out of the way, out of sight.

 

It's just as rewarding as Mika remembers, having Shu's hands on him like this. He has to keep swallowing flowers, choking down fluttering blooms of everything from what tastes like roses to gardenias to lavender, while Shu gently tilts his face to dust his cheeks with blush, opens Mika's mouth so he can properly curl those naturally thick eyelashes. Shu is painting the face of a doll, airbrushing and touching up and making Mika perfect, perfect from every angle. With such precise hands he corrects the slightest imbalances of color, smooths his face into porcelain, delicate and flawless. Mika feels reborn, recreated, every time Shu does this, and now the swelling happiness in his chest is compounded with the twist of tiny petals in his throat, but it isn't unpleasant. Even if it's just like this, Shu is touching him, making him beautiful, and that's enough. For now.

 _For now_ , Mika thinks, as Shu brings over his Valkyrie outfit, the one tailored personally for him, the proof that Valkyrie still lives, and takes off his shirt to fit the corset over his waist-- for now, he can pretend that this touch is not as clinical as Shu has always thought it, that this delicate brush of hands is already that of a lover.

When Shu is finished dressing him, he turns Mika around by the shoulders to view himself in the mirror. Mika marvels, again, at this feeling— this feeling of being beautiful, special, important. Worthy of expensive makeup and hand-tailored ruffles and Shu’s perfect hands transforming him. Transforming _him,_ the scraggly Kansai street urchin who searched for scraps in the garbage dump because his mother always conveniently forgot to feed him, who was born with strange eyes that always attracted unwanted attention, whispered gossip and scorn, when he just wanted to disappear into the crowd, to be unnoticed.

_But these eyes brought Shu into his life._

They brought Shu, all fussing hands and ruffles on his clothes and perfect _proper_ Japanese, into his orbit—

Mika remembers a book he read as a child, hiding out at the library when his father had come back unexpectedly with a drink in hand and a hair-trigger temper. _Night on the Galactic Railroad,_ was it? He remembers the star Albireo, how the description of it stood out to him: a binary star, two stars orbiting each other, one yellow, one blue. The sparkling topaz and sapphire, marking the way, a touchstone, and an observatory rising up to meet them.

 

(From this far away, all stars look like pinpoints of light, nowhere as bright or important as other planets… But stars are enormous, blazing and heavy, and every solar system revolves around one, and chances are, if you were to point out one star in the sky, it would be thousands of times bigger than the sun.)

(Was he always that dazzling, that influential? Was his gravitational pull that great? Did he never see it because he was so busy viewing his star from far away, so far away that it looked like a pinprick of light, that his eyes couldn’t separate the two stars at all?)

(Did Shu see him as he was? As he could never see himself?)

 

But it is time, and Mika can already hear the crowd chanting their names, he can already feel the buzzing of his heart in his chest. Shu clears his throat (obviously choking down a few petals, Mika knows) and lets out a single, powerful note to warm up, as if testing the gears in his body. Mika follows his lead and projects a solid third, bringing them into harmony. Satisfied, Shu nods, and motions for Mika to come with him as he opens the changing room door, and straight into the wings of the darkened stage.

The curtain is still closed, and they take their places behind it. Mika’s hands are a little shaky, as they always are before an important Live, and the urge to take Mika’s hand is strong, but Shu resists. He hesitates for a moment before instead planting a hand firmly on his shoulder. “Stand tall, Kagehira. Do not concede. We are Valkyrie.”

“R-Right,” Mika says, confirms it within himself. Shu’s hand is warm where it rests on his shoulder. “We’re Valkyrie. Never concede, never mingle, never look back…”

 

* * *

 

The curtain rolls slowly up. The accompaniment begins to play. Mika’s heart is fit to burst. The world outside, the ugly, dirtied, twisted world, narrows to the two of them, a universe created between their bodies, between stage right and stage left. The most perfect world the audience will ever see.

Mika is collapsed, head lowered, kneeling limply on the floor in front of Shu, who has his hands raised as if about to conduct a symphony. It always feels so real, the moment Shu’s hands begin to move-- Mika can feel the threads connecting them weave themselves from stage light and violin melodies, tangle and tie themselves around each of his fingers. He lets himself be lifeless until the moment Shu twitches his hands upwards, and then he feels his body piece itself together, his awareness come back to him, and he slowly rises. He can hear the collective vocalization of awe from the audience, as if they really can’t tell if Mika is a doll or a human, and knows he’s doing well.

The storyline this time feels too ironic-- a doll in love with his maker, come to life due to the spirit accidentally given to him through the painstaking care in his creation. Mika knows Shu wrote it because Valkyrie’s tales of love and loss always feel the most real, the most genuine to perform, and he wonders if that can’t be a coincidence-- but Shu never ends things happily. There is always pain, a distinct sorrow by the end, pervading the entire story, and that is how it becomes art. But still, against all evidence that it will never be, Mika wishes, in the deepest corners of his being, that someday Shu’s story will have a happy ending.

And Shu begins to sing, and the voice rings out clear as a crystal bell through the auditorium, and he throws one arm to his side, unraveling the string, and Mika unravels with it, spinning towards the other side of the stage. He dances, with each tug of Shu’s individual fingers, until Shu’s monologue is over and Mika lets his voice go.

He can still feel the threads, and he doesn’t even have to look at Shu’s hands to align his movements, but Mika’s song is clear as well, open and projected just like Shu taught him. His heart may be pounding-- this is his solo, after all-- but right now his body belongs to the strings, and he can barely feel it.

Until, of course, the moment he feels the throb, and reaches out to bundle the invisible strings in one hand and yanks, bringing Shu towards him. His voice nearly cracks (but thankfully does not) when Shu stares down at him quizzically, and Mika presses a hand to Shu’s chest, singing pleadingly up at him, the doll desperately searching for its creator’s affection.

They make eye contact. Mika wonders if his performance could someday convince Shu that it was never a performance after all.

Then Shu frowns, after almost resting a hand on Mika’s shoulder, and denies him.

It’s okay. It’s how it’s supposed to go. But it doesn’t keep Mika’s heart from sinking as he’s pushed back out of Shu’s arms and farther away each time. He wants to reach out, wants to get close enough to kiss him, but that’s not in the script and _definitely_ not something he can do on the stage or off.

And Shu’s hands begin to dance again. Their song is joined together now, and Mika’s voice layers perfectly, even while Shu tugs on each limb to bring him into movement. He separates himself from his dance, focuses on his voice-- they’ve become so intertwined in performances that Mika’s dance feels almost unconscious, like Shu really is moving him like a puppet.

Mika recognizes, at the end of the chorus, when the music falls to a quiet swell, that it’s his turn again. Cautiously this time, he pulls Shu in step by step, not yanking him as he did last time but bringing them together in the middle. Shu looks at him again. Mika feels every word in his throat swell with emotion. Someday, he can express it. Someday he will be good enough that Shu can understand. Even if it’s not today.

Shu lets himself a little closer, takes Mika’s chin in one hand and lifts it up, examining, eyes troubled.

Then something, inexplicably, shifts.

The moment the music hangs and Shu is supposed to push him back again, leading the audience on further this time, Shu turns to the side, face twisting and eyes widening in agony, and stumbles back to heave up a flurry of deep crimson roses.

 _This wasn’t in the script,_ Mika thinks, his mind numb, breath suddenly knocked from his lungs. _This wasn’t supposed to happen_ \--

 

Then Shu coughs up his first black lily. And he does not stop.

Mika knows, he remembers, dahlias and lilies over the stage, Keito’s body giving out, blood all over, _love, curse._ He feels dizzy, stunned into silence, frozen and unable to move as Shu begins to double over himself.

He’s useless. He’s useless. Shu is going to die and he’s so _useless_.

 

And with each bloom, with each spasm of pain, Shu can hear--

_he loves me, he loves me not_

His knees crumple beneath him

_he loves me_

the music comes to a halt

_he loves me not_

black lilies scattered over the stage

_he loves me_

and Mika is scrambling to his knees, by his side, crying, _please don’t leave me alone_

_he loves me not_

body trembling with sobs, yanking the mic away from his face, mouthing _Oshi-san Oshi-san please hold on_ but he can’t, he knows it’s over

_he loves me_

Shu, sprawled out and spasming in a pool of deep deep red and black,

_he loves me not_

Shu who is going to die without ever knowing Mika loved him,

_he loves me_

even though it's pointless, it means nothing now, Mika has to, he has to--

_he loves me not_

he leans over Shu’s body, muffles the mic in one fist, and whispering panting sobbing _needing_ he

 

_I love you_

_I love you_

_I love you, Oshi-san, I always have_

 

Shu's eyes visibly widen, his pupils shrink, his blood-spattered face suddenly untwisting from its agony, and then, under the stage lights, with the whole audience watching, Mika sobbing above him, one hand covering his face, the other resting on Shu's chest, waiting for the moment his heart stops so he can know when to grieve, right there--

he _breathes_.

Long, shuddering breaths, like he's never known flowers in his throat, Shu breathes, inhales, exhales. The vines uncurl, the thorns stop digging into his lungs, the world stops spinning and Mika is looking at him like he'd die if Shu were gone and Mika _loves_ him.

 _Mika loves him_.

Shu wonders why he couldn't tell from the start (he hates himself too much to believe that anyone could ever love him, much less Mika,) he wonders why else Mika would have stayed (out of obligation, fear, lack of options, nowhere else to go,) he wonders why Mika loves him, but he does, he _does_ and for now it's everything.

One more spasm courses through him, a flurry of pure blue.

Forget-me-nots.

And then, suddenly, Mika knows.

Always, it’s been like this. Always Shu has been hiding, masking his love beneath harsh words and hardened eyes and cooing over his more perfect doll (he loved Nito, he _did,_ but Mika was different, Mika was something imperfect and twisted with humanity and where Shu wanted Nito pure and untainted by his own hands, he couldn’t help the surges of desire, because Mika was so reachable and real and if he touched him he knew he wouldn’t be able to go back--)

But Mika was always so sure that he wasn’t good enough. Always smiling sadly to himself when Shu wasn’t looking, knowing he’d never be the most important, but accepting it as long as he could stay by his side. As long as Shu was there...

\--and yet every touch was always that of a lover, of a maestro reduced to a breathless, _vulnerable_ boy whenever they made contact. Shu has loved Mika for so long. He has always held himself back. But he doesn’t have to anymore.

These flowers had always been Mika’s. But now they are shared. Shu doesn’t have to say the words. Mika _knows._

They pull each other to their feet, weak-kneed and giddy, when the crowd bursts into raucous applause. The show must always go on, so Shu waves his arms to signal to the sound manager, bringing the orchestral instrumental to a swell of emotion. It is time.

And they are ready. Shu’s blood, spilled on the stage, will become the fertilizer for new flowers to bloom here.

Mika takes his hand.

There is a new song in their throats, one that has never been sung before, one that neither of them ever thought they would have the opportunity to sing. Valkyrie’s unexpected, dissonant chord progressions resolve into one soaring harmony, a wave of exquisite satisfaction, of completion, the song of a newly resurrected swan.

There is new life in these once-broken dolls. There is a new light, stringing itself into threads, connecting both of them by the fingers, and Mika pulls, and Shu dissolves into movement, and they find the places where their bodies follow each other, where the puppet and the master have disappeared and now it is only them, only Shu and Mika, only love and love, and light like every star has chained together to form these strings twining between them.

Shu moves, Mika follows. Mika moves, Shu follows. They respond to each other, an intricate web of strings and voices. They do not look at the audience. They do not look anywhere but into each other's eyes.

Here is the new touch, their completed embodiment. Here is the woven song, like magic on their lips. Here is their new castle, their new theatre.

They dance, and set the world alight.

And as Mika feels the world rise in his throat, Shu changes the script, pulls him in with those invisible strings, and Mika spins gently into Shu’s arms, trusting, falling almost limply knowing that Shu will catch him.

He does. Shu dips him low, their faces hovering close together, and all Mika can see is his soft smile, his eyes sparking with the thrill and newfound (no, Mika remembers, it was always there, it had always been there) love. Mika almost feels his knees give out, and he can’t help the exhausted, blissful smile he gives in return, captivated by Shu’s eyes on him, looking only at him.

The audience is an ocean illuminated with cheers and waving lights. It takes them a while to realize where they are, the blinking rainbow glow in the corners of their eyes finally snapping both of them back into reality. Mika is still dizzy, his knees still weak and trembling, but Shu hoists him up and takes his hand and they truly, deeply bow this time, Shu’s hand so warm and fingers enlaced in a proper lover’s hold, finally intertwined the way they both had always wanted, always meant to be.

 

* * *

 

Wataru looks up at them from the front standing row, and smiles tearfully. Everything feels soft and settled now in his heart. The world is an open field now, and not a cage. Flowers are blooming on their own.

It may not be him. But he’s never been happier.

 

* * *

 

The moment the curtain closes, Shu’s eyes light up with a desperation Mika has never seen before, and his grip tightens as he turns and pulls Mika out through the side wings and into the long echoing hallway filled with dressing rooms. They can hear the crowd already pouring out, already trying to get to the entrance to the backstage hallway, cameras already flashing in a chaotic tempest of jostling fans and reporters. Shu yanks open the door to their dressing room before the crowd can reach the security blocking the hall, and pulls Mika in, shutting it firm and locking it behind him before he stands in front of Mika for two long seconds and then he--

_oh my god._

Shu is kissing him. Finally, _finally_ , and Mika whimpers into his lips and just _melts_ beneath him, how Shu’s arm slips around his waist and bends him back with the force of this sudden passion, and Mika staggers back onto the velvet couch and collapses, Shu still on him, kissing him like their lives depend on it. Once he’s settled in enough to keep himself from sliding off the couch he flings his arms around Shu’s shoulders, panting with the surge of adrenaline and thrill of it all, letting Shu’s hands slide up and card through his hair.

“Oshi-san,” he manages, in a gasping break for air, before pulling him back in and letting his lips open to allow Shu access, bravely now, with a sense of courage he’s never had before. Shu takes Mika’s bottom lip between his, opens their mouths, kisses him deeply. They’re tired of holding back, tired of feeling flowers in their mouths-- now all that matters is the taste of each other’s lips. Shu still faintly tastes of blood but mostly the pungent aroma of lilies is gone and Mika feels a shiver of relief down his spine at the thought. No more choking on petals. No more rasping lungs and shortness of breath and agonizing, painful, one-sided love. This is all there is now, all they need.

Shu pulls back for a glancing second.

“Mika.”

Mika groans, fumbling with his hands around Shu’s shoulders, holding onto him. A new kind of breathlessness overtakes him at the sound of his name on Shu’s sweet, kiss-reddened lips. He’s never loved his name so much as he does when Shu breathes it nearly into his mouth, like it’s the oxygen he needs to live, not a name that’s always felt too heavy for his tongue, the way children used to mock him for it, the way he felt the shame burning his face.

“Shu,” he gasps, throwing himself back in again, clinging hard as Shu parts his lips once more and then he tastes something strangely salty between them, and then he notices he’s crying.

Shu pulls back, his eyes softening, reaches up to thumb a tear from his apple-red cheeks. He leans in and kisses another one from Mika’s golden eye. Mika nearly brings his hands up to his face to hide, but Shu pushes them back down, gently, without any force in it at all save his emotion, and Mika sobs now for real and buries his face into Shu’s shoulder, weeping freely, his makeup unavoidably smudging into the black fabric. But Shu can deal with that later. For now, he holds Mika close, petting through his hair with one hand, so tender that it makes Mika tremble.

“So happy, ‘m so happy, I don’ deserve ta be so happy,” Mika wails, muffled softly into Shu’s uniform, and Shu soothes him.

“Shh, shh. None of that, of course you do, you deserve--” he chokes, but spits out the feelings anyway, even if they make tears sting at his eyes as well-- “all the happiness in this wretched world.”

 

* * *

 

When they arrive home, Shu changes them both into pajamas, gently cleans the layers of makeup off Mika’s face, and then pulls him into bed without even a thought of bathing or their nightly routine. He switches off the lights, and Mika cuddles up to him, and Shu wraps his arms around him as they settle in together.

The night passes slowly, and they indulge in each other, pressing close and letting themselves entangle. Their kisses are slow this time, less of the desperation they had after the live and more just reveling in each other’s presence. With each new and deeper kiss, it’s relief, it’s resolution-- for the first time, their breaths are short from something other than flowers in their lungs. Something equal, something reciprocated, requited, alive and expressed in both of them. Mika is still holding Shu tightly by the time he falls asleep, a faithful heartbeat pressed against his chest, and Shu closes his eyes softly, letting himself drift into dreams of Elysium filled with blue and yellow flowers, dreams of Mika's eyes.

 

* * *

 

Valkyrie is known for its controversy, for its irreverent disrespect for idol norms, and so the performance goes viral overnight.

The rumors of how Keito died, never quite confirmed, the truth kept mostly a secret within the Yumenosaki idol course who watched him perish on stage, propel the discussion this time. _Valkyrie’s Live pays tribute to fallen idol? Akatsuki fans weigh in,_ reads one of the idol magazines the very next day. A blog post-- _Too soon? Tribute or exploitation_ \-- flooded with comments. A 5 star review, an article trying to dispel the rumors of hanahaki in Keito’s death, a photograph of Shu and Mika during the Live on every cover-- Mika sobbing and kneeling over Shu, confessing his love.

And of course, the reporters are outside the Yumenosaki gates. Shu and Mika have worn hats and sunglasses and hospital masks to school today, as they often do after a particularly popular Live, but that doesn’t stop cameras from flashing and microphones from being shoved into their faces.

“Itsuki-san! Were you the writer of the scenario last night?”

“Can you give us insight as to why you wrote it?”

“Was it a tribute to the late Hasumi-san? Or was it piggybacking off the rumors?”

“Shut up, no comment,” Shu snaps, and pushes past the crowd, grabbing Mika’s hand. Mika, however, takes off his sunglasses and pulls his mask down. “Kagehira, what--”

“That ain’t what happened to Kei-chan,” Mika answers, his voice uncharacteristically assertive. “He had lung issues ‘n they got real bad. No flowers or nothin’, thas’ just a dumb rumor. Shame on ya fer spreadin’ romantic rumors ‘bout the dead.”

“Kagehira-san!”

“Kagehira-san, can you comment on the performance?”

“Kagehira-san--”

“Shh, lemme talk. Oshi-san, ‘s okay,” he affirms, stepping in front of him. Shu goes silent, holds Mademoiselle up over his face. “We’d been wantin’ to do a hanahaki plot fer a while, so uh, Oshi-san did it. Don’ make it inta somethin’ it ain’t.”

“Kagehira-san, how did Valkyrie manage such realistic special effects for that particular moment?”

“Kagehira-san, are you and Itsuki-san possibly more than friends or unitmates?”

 

Mika holds his index finger up to his lips. Shu looks at him-- his eyes are sparkling as he answers both questions at once, looking between the two reporters, grinning mischievously.

And Shu feels himself fall in love, all over again.

 

"Can't tell ya. It's a secret."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I TOLD YOU IT WOULD HAVE A HAPPY ENDING
> 
> here it is. we've reached the end. we did it kids, we climbed this mountain and flew into the great.
> 
> i want to thank everyone that cried over this fic, that showed it to their friends, that commented how much they hated me for killing keito, that encouraged me and waited for me, even when it felt like i would never get this dumb thing done. every one of my readers. thank you. you've earned this happy ending.
> 
> this is the most personally important work i've written for this fandom and it shows. it's my baby, and i've never once had the idea to abandon it. it came from a very deep place of sadness and love inside of me and i knew from the moment i started it that i couldn't leave it behind. 
> 
> i hope this ending filled the gap that the whole fic seemed to leave. i know it did for me.
> 
> much love to everyone.
> 
> edit: hey y'all   
> post publishing i decided to finally make a flower guide for those of you who didn't look up the meanings while you read (what were you doing?!) and also some extras on the meanings you saw, the specific feeling i went for (since one flower has a lot of meanings) and why it was used there!
> 
> here it is! you don't have to log into twitter to read it! http://privatter.net/p/2331890


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